A Perfect Enemy
by Velocity Girl1980
Summary: With Ruth newly returned from Cyprus and Lucas not long back on the Grid, the old team is only just getting back on its feet. But before long, their nerve is tested when a whole new group of social agitators begins to make their presence felt in increasingly sinister ways. Ruth, Harry, Lucas and Ros must get on the case before things turn deadly.
1. Blackpool Rock (Introduction)

**Direct sequel to "Acts of Truth" but otherwise unrelated to it and completely AU. A group of social agitators rise up, troublesome but harmless, at first. It's up to Section D to get on the case and stop them before things get seriously out of hand. Only the OCs belong to me, all else to BBC and Kudos.  
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* * *

**Chapter One: Blackpool Rock (Introduction)**

If Ruth closes her eyes she can imagine herself back in Cyprus. She can dream away the Thames and put the restless, endless ocean in its place; turn the skyscrapers into ancient monuments and conjure an arid heat from the insipid English sun. What she cannot imagine back in her life, are the people. Or rather, George. It's only been a month since her return, and already it's as though he never existed. This lack of feeling shamed her; she tried to impose it on herself like a surgeon grafting emotions from one person's brain to another. But no one can conjure a feeling out of thin air; love simply cannot be manufactured like that. It wasn't that she didn't miss him; it was just more akin to looking back at an old school friend: she wondered where he was, whether he was happy and then she got on with something else.

When she opened her eyes again, on that particular sunny, Sunday afternoon, she turned her back to the river barrier and faced Thames House. She'd only been back once, just to drop in and say hello to old friends and comrades. But she would starting back officially the next day, and she knew it would be as though the last two years hadn't happened. Already, a thrill of excitement gripped her by the stomach as she thought ahead to the next day. After four stagnant weeks of waiting for Harry to sort things out, she was chomping at the bit to get back in there. Four weeks, for Harry to convince the powers that be that her return to work did not herald the coming of the Acts of Truth apocalypse.

A soft breeze ruffled the hems of her skirts as her mobile phone trilled into life, somewhere in the bowels of her handbag. Rummaging amongst the loose tissues, mascaras and powder compacts, she pulled out the phone like a prize in a lucky dip. In-coming call: Lucile Adams. Ruth breathed a sigh of relief.

"Lucy," greeted Ruth by way of answer. To try and drown out the heavy traffic, Ruth jammed her free index finger in her ear. "Did you get my message?"

The line crackled, but through the static the younger woman's voice answered in the affirmative, before adding: "Lunch with the Defence Secretary – who can refuse?"

"Exactly," Ruth laughed back. "Careful you don't make the husband too jealous."

"What time will you be there at?" asked Lucile.

"Harry's just had to pop into Thames House; you know that business on the news today? That business with the confectioners? It's that. I'm waiting for him now and I'll text you when he's out again."

"Oh, god, that!" Lucile replied. "Is that something we need to worry about?"

Ruth considered the question, and mentally shrugged. "Who knows," she replied, not in a question. "It doesn't look good, though. If someone's deliberately poisoned their supplies, this could be huge."

"Urgh! I love their chocolate mousses too," replied the other woman. "Ah well, see you later Ruth. And welcome back! I never for one moment thought you'd done what they said. But you know what the service is like."

_All too well_, Ruth thought as the call ended. But Lucile, an old colleague from GCHQ, had been one of the first to get back in touch with her when she returned. A nice lady of about thirty-four, newly married and excited at the prospect of a quasi-field Op during secondment to MI5. They would discuss it during the dinner with the Defence Secretary, who had wanted Ruth to do the job but Harry was adamant: Ruth needed time to settle back in and find her feet. So Ruth broke the deadlock between the two men by suggesting Lucile. She spoke several languages and had proved a gifted cryptographer during the short time she and Ruth had worked together at GCHQ.

When Ruth returned her phone to the pits of her handbag, she turned back towards the river. Summer was coming, and the slowly increasing heat was lifting the stink of the river mists to ground level and she hoped Harry would hurry up. In the meantime, while she waited, Ruth let her thoughts drift back to Cyprus and a wry smile spread slowly across her face. How many times had she been in at home in Polis, whishing she was in London and missing Cyprus, rather than the other way round. Now, she was and she realised she was happy.

The sound of a footstep falling close by caught her attention; she turned to see Harry materialising at her side. Just as always, he popped up out of thin air even when she was expecting him. He was smiling, but looked careworn and he fussed over a set of cufflinks on his shirt. Seeing him again still felt surreal, like it was a dream she expected to wake up from at any moment, as she had so many times in the past two years. But this Harry was real, his flesh reassuringly solid as he circled an arm around her waist to steer towards their waiting car. Inwardly, she was impressed: Sir Harry Pearce clearly had someone else to do his driving, these days.

Remembering her promise to Lucile, Ruth sent the promised text informing her to set off for the Defence Secretary's Chelsea home. All the while, she was aware of Harry watching her curiously, his green eyes fixing her, leaden with doubt. She knew what the question would be even before he had so much as twitched his lips to begin asking. She smiled in the face of the inevitable.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?"

When she glanced up from her phone, she saw him gnawing nervously at the knuckle of one black leather gloved hand. He usually only wore those gloves when he was off to dispose of someone. Surely, she thought to herself, he hadn't taken against the Defence Secretary that badly already? The man had only been in the job for a month or so, following a Cabinet reshuffle.

Ruth sighed heavily, nonetheless touched at his concern. "Harry, I can't wait-"

"That's not what I asked."

"Yes!" she laughed. "A hundred times, yes. Now stop faffing."

"Faffing?" he repeated, grimacing. "I've been accused of many things, Ruth, but faffing isn't among them."

"Not to your face," she retorted.

The driver pulled out into the London traffic, thankfully not so bad on a sunny afternoon. Everyone was out enjoying themselves, populating the parks or heading out of London: the opposite direction to which they were going. Heading for the nearest stretch of beach, or fleeing to the open countryside for picnics and sight-seeing before returning to the grim realities of the work-a-day grindstone. To Ruth's relief, Harry grinned knowingly and dropped his gaze. He even stopped troubling those nice leather murder gloves.

"So, what's going on at the chocolate factory?" she asked, changing the subject and curious about what probably be her first job, come the morning. It sounded sinister, from what she had heard on the news that morning, and Harry seemed worried.

"Willy Wonka accidentally left the cyanide taps on overnight, or something like that," he replied, waving a dismissive hand. "They actually don't have any proof, but they think it is sabotage." He paused there, before taking his own turn to change the subject. "Did Lucile Adams agree to meet us at the dinner?"

"She'll be there. She really wants to do this, actually. She's never been out in the field before and has always wanted to do it."

"She won't be out in the field, exactly. She'll be buried away in some bunker reading out coded messages over a radio signal," explained Harry. "By the way, you do know I didn't mean to imply that you're not fit for the job. You know, when I refused to let them send you. I really do think you should take your time and settle back in. I let Lucas jump back in and he ended up getting himself chased down and shot in Cyprus-"

"I know, Harry," she interjected. "But Lucas is different, and you weren't to know that Connie was a traitor of the highest order."

She had never met Connie James, but the mention of her name brought a brief flicker of pain to Harry's eyes. He looked away from her, at the streets whizzing past the car windows. Just for a second, before he turned back to look at her again. She thought he was about to say something else, or divulge more information about what Connie had done. But instead, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an old photograph, handing it to her. It was a copy, black and white. A young man standing defiant before a line of policemen cowering behind Perspex shields, ominous truncheons at the ready as they closed in on protesters nearby. The young man was unarmed, but standing his ground. Behind him, others gathered in a defensive huddle as they braced themselves for the onslaught. They were in a field, but in the background was an old coking plant. The Miner's Strike, 1984-85. The face looked familiar, frozen in time as he shouted at the advancing policemen.

"Is that him?" she asked, looking back up at Harry. "Is that David Shelley?"

Harry's eyes glimmered, a knowing look setting in. "From rioting picket surfer to Secretary of State for Defence. We've got quite an interesting file on him, as it happens."

Now this dinner was looking even more interesting. Of course, New Labour sell-outs (as some would see them) populated the hallowed halls of Westminster, but still nothing quite on this level. Ruth handed the picture back, making a mental note to check David Shelley out properly, once she was back in work properly. For today, she was doing nothing more than accompanying Harry and lending emotional support to an old friend. "Is there anything else I need to know about Comrade Shelley?" she asked.

"He named his son after Leon Trotsky," replied Harry, and Ruth had to suppress a laugh.

"Poor kid!"

Harry grinned. "Don't feel too sorry for him, he's just been expelled from his boarding school apparently. Although his father is dressing it up as some kind of illness leave."

Ruth settled back down, watching from the car window as they put the river to the south of them as they headed towards Chelsea. She could just see the Chelsea Bridge, leading them into one of the most affluent areas of London – a fairly affluent city to begin with. The likes of her had rarely been allowed to darken its neat terraced doorways or besmirch its whitewashed walls. She was definitely looking forward to the dinner now.

* * *

Ros fixed the television set with a sharp, beady-eyed look as the newsreader concluded the broadcast. Next to her on the sofa of the small flat, Lucas was more interested in the contents of his tea cup, where a digestive biscuit had just slopped into the depths after being dunked a nanosecond too long. She ignored his muttered curse and kept her eye fixed on the screen for a second longer. She was on the edge of her seat, then slumped backwards so suddenly that Lucas almost dropped his cup.

"Years ago, there was this guy working for Blackpool Rock, making the actual rock," she began talking. "After fifty years of making rock, not missing a single day, he retired. He got a card signed by his colleagues, but other than that, nothing much – not even the mandatory crap clock. He'd never missed a single day at this factory. Day in, day out, making sticks of rock that no one ever actually eats. You know what he did?"

Listening with only half an ear, Lucas shrugged. "Enlighten me."

She turned in her seat to face him, eyes narrowed as she continued her story. "He came in on his last ever day and carried on making his Blackpool Rock. Only, instead of stamping the words 'Blackpool Rock' through the batches, he stamped the words: 'Fuck You.'"

Laughter erupted from Lucas, causing to actually spill his tea as he imagined the bright, sugar coated 'fuck you' Blackpool Rock. Ros smiled too, noticing the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed.

"True story," she cut in, while he was still composing himself. "That's probably what happened at this chocolatier's factory. An employee with a grudge has decided to get his revenge."

"Yeah," he agreed. "Probably someone like Malcolm; like the old Blackpool Rock guy. Someone who's been there forever. Someone who's part of the furniture; who forever goes unnoticed and unappreciated."

Ros shuddered as she wondered how Malcolm would exact his revenge. Would he come into work one day and take them all down in a blaze of gun fire? Maybe the CIA or the FSB? It's always the quiet ones; the ones you least suspected. Although never one to normally indulge in such idle speculation, she still made a mental note to say something to Malcolm that would make him feel valued. God knows how many lives she could be saving. In all seriousness, the thought of it made her smile. Still, Harry seemed worried about what was going on, if their phone call that morning was anything to go by.

However, she decided to say nothing to Lucas about that. He had been off work ever since they returned from Cyprus, where their mission to hunt down Oliver Mace had turned on a hair into a mission to extract Ruth. Now, Mace was dead and Lucas was still delicate after receiving a gunshot wound to the chest: the bullet having narrowly missed his heart. Ros watched Lucas as he dabbed the spilled tea off the coffee table. She was still unsure as to how she felt about him. They'd spent two weeks living in an underground bunker together, of course she had grown close to him. But the spectre of Adam Carter still hadn't been exorcised, he still came back to her in her nightmares. Too soon, she thought to herself, too soon.

"I want to come back," he said to her. "I'm coming in tomorrow and Harry can't send me home-"

"He can, and he will," Ros cut him off. "He's still unhappy about the debrief situation, you know."

Lucas sighed impatiently. "Why?" he asked, that pleading look back in his sapphire eyes. "Didn't I prove what I can do back in Cyprus?"

"That's not the point," she countered. "It's not about proving yourself. It's about easing yourself back in gradually so you don't go in to total meltdown later, down the line."

He fell silent, but held her gaze. He wasn't done yet, and Ros could tell he was itching to protest; he would, if he thought it would get him anywhere. But she kept silent, letting him have the floor.

"Ruth's starting back tomorrow," he pointed out, sounding slightly petulant. "Why can't I? I hate sitting round this flat feeling useless."

It had been a month. He was back on his feet, he was raring to go again. Slowly, Ros relented. She couldn't find it within her to keep on denying him. "Come in tomorrow," she instructed. "But if Harry wants you to rest longer, I'm not going to argue with him."

Lucas grinned, thanked her enthusiastically as he jumped to his feet. They were in his flat, about to head out into the warm afternoon to grab a pub lunch together. Ros, also, swept her light jacket from the back of a dining room chair, fumbling for her car keys in the pocket. Once Lucas had his front door key, they headed out of the door and into the open air. Outside, the sun shone down on empty residential streets. The sounds and smells of distant barbeques drifted over picket fences and privet hedges. Urban foxes would think all their Christmases had come at once, come the evening and the first signs of dusk.

Ros paused at the bottom of the garden path and turned to look back at Lucas as he locked the front door. The latest addition to her team: Jo Portman, Ben Kaplan, Lucas and, from tomorrow, Ruth Evershed. Yes, she thought to herself, she has her team now. Her team and no one else's.

* * *

"Leon!"

The teenage boy rolled over in bed, throwing an arm lazily over a dozing woman and tried to ignore his father's voice. But it was still enough to wake the girl. She opened her cornflower blue eyes and groaned. Her sandy hair fanned out against the cream coloured pillow, she had to raise one elbow to nudge her sleepy lover. He moaned softly, his lips parting, raven dark curls falling into his still closed eyes. Closed, until his father's voice called out again, from the floor below.

"Shit, Emma, you have to go," he murmured, already staggering out of bed.

Emma snorted with laughter. "What will he do if he finds me here?" she asked, making it sound like a challenge. "Spank you?"

Leon paused, half bent and propped against the navy blue painted wall as he pulled on the first pair of clean, ironed trousers he could find. He was topless, flat stomached as someone who'd suffered a growth spurt, betraying his youth. His eyes were as dark as his hair, but he was tall, at least. At twenty-seven years old, Emma was nine years older than him. An older woman had been a good catch, according to his friends. But she was more than that: she was clever, dangerous, flirtatious and teasing. She thrilled him, she kept him neatly in the palm of her hand. She was teasing him now, and he had wised up enough to ignore it.

"Leon! The guests are arriving any minute!"

His father's voice shattered the companionable silence that had fallen between them. Emma's eyes darted towards the door.

"His Master's Voice," she whispered, looking back at him.

Irritated, Leon scowled across the room at Emma. She had propped herself up on her elbows, with a blanket wrapped round her, returning his look with a playful smile on her face. "He is not my…" but the protest froze on his lips at the look of incredulity on her face. "I can make my own decisions, you know?"

Emma nodded, a look of feigned sincerity on her face. "Oh, of course! But if it all gets too angsty for you, you can always write some bad sixth form poetry about it and set it to a Smiths tune. Oh no… wait, the Smiths are a bit before your time aren't they?"

He stopped, halfway between buttoning a clean shirt. "I'll have you know, that in every situation I find myself in, I ask first: what would Morrissey do?" He quietened as he tucked the shirt into his trousers. Once he was done, he looked back at her, where she was now getting dressed again. "But at least I'm not the one pulling school kid pranks on chocolate companies," he stated, pointedly.

Suddenly, Emma turned serious as she pulled her jeans back on. "You don't understand, Leon," she said. "This 'school kid's prank' as you call it will cost them millions. There is no poison. The only poisoned products are the ones we bought and laced ourselves for sending back with the note. But if they think we've poisoned the whole damn lot, they must withdraw it all. It's the perfect hit: no one gets hurt, except the company and they get hit where it hurts most: square in the profits."

Leon pulled a comb through his hair as he thought it over. He could see the sense in what she was doing, but it still seemed like an elaborate hoax. But the main thing, for him, was that no one got hurt. But they would need to up their game, if they wanted to be taken seriously. He pondered on that while he knotted his tie.

"These people my father has over," he said, quietly. "I think they're MI5; or GCHQ. I'm not sure."

Now she was interested. "Oh, yes?"

"I don't know for sure, and they won't discuss anything important in front of me," he explained. "I'm just being trotted out like a performing monkey. But I can find out what they're up to for you."

He turned to study his reflection in the mirror. Also reflected, was Emma, lacing up her Converse as she prepared to make her escape through the bedroom window before his father could find her there. Satisfied that he had her attention, he pressed on: "If I do this, I want in properly," he said. "Why would you distrust me if I do this for you?"

Emma stood up and closed the gap between them, wrapped her arms around his narrow waist. "It's not that we don't trust you," she said, low in his ear. "But … your father being who he is... You must know how it looks."

Sadly, he did. Leon resumed knotting his tie and thinking of the pinhole spy camera he had already fitted to the smoke detector in the dining room. He had put it there a week ago, in hope that it would come in useful. He wouldn't be there when the important business was discussed, but the camera would. If his father found it, he would think MI5 put it there.

"You can trust me," he said. "I promise. I'll prove it."

Emma smiled as she straightened his tie for him, but didn't say anything. They kissed one final time, ignoring his father's voice as he called up the stairs yet again. His tone was reaching fever pitch of panic and, any minute, he would come charging through the door. Neither of them could ignore it any longer. "See you around," she said, as he picked up his jacket and headed for the door.

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**Thanks again for reading and reviews would be welcome.**


	2. Tour of the North

A big thank you to everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter, it means a lot. Thank you!

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**Chapter Two: Tour of the North**

Alone and unattached to anyone else at the social gathering, Lucile Adams clutched her glass of wine and trod cautiously round the little knots of people. There were faces she recognised, of course, but only from GCHQ files and the newsreels on TV. Nicholas Blake, the Home Secretary, was hunched in a corner at the back of the room, speaking in hushed tones to a squat and chubby man who'd accompanied Ruth Evershed to the event. She could only assume it was Harry Pearce, the one 'they' all talked about. Ruth herself was with him, but Lucile failed to catch her eye. Feeling like a fifth wheel, she hovered awkwardly beside the Minister for Trade and Industry and smiled at passers-by as though she knew them.

"Are you alright, dear? You look lost." The person who addressed Lucile was Miss Trade and Industry, or Sinead Kelly to her friends.

Lucile's eyes widened in surprise. "Oh, fine," she said, hurriedly. When Miss Trade and Industry kept staring, Lucile found herself struggling for something else to say. "Lovely party, isn't it?"

Actually, no it wasn't. She'd hurried round here on her day off, expecting to be given instructions for her secondment to MI-5 before rubbing shoulders with the political elite before foiling dastardly terrorist plots within twenty-four hours. Instead, she'd been lurking on the side lines like a bad smell and grinning at strangers in an effort to make it look as though she hadn't accidentally wandered in off the streets. If she had known that partners were invited as well, she would have brought Pete, her husband. They were only just married and she had delayed their honeymoon for this chance to work at MI5.

The man standing at the side of Miss Trade and Industry was none other than Mister Defence Secretary, David Shelley. Every so often, she noted, he would slip his arm discreetly round Miss Trade and Industry's waist and whisper softly in her ear. He was an undeniably handsome man, still only in his late forties, with hazel eyes and warm complexion. His black hair was greying, but only served to add dignity to his bearing. When the gaze of those same hazel eyes came to rest on her, she found herself standing almost to attention, gripping the stem of her glass. The eyes narrowed, his thin lips parted as he went to say something.

"Er, what do I call you then?" he asked. He knew her name, but not whether he was allowed to use it at a social gathering. But the guests were only politicians and other spooks from MI5.

"Just call me Lucy," she said. "Everyone else does."

Extricating his hand from around the Minister's waist, he extended it instead towards Lucile. She shook, noting the firm politician's handshake he used.

"Pleased to meet you, Lucy. Thank you so much for agreeing to this little assignment we have for you-"

"Yes, thank you. It's much appreciated," the Minister for Trade and Industry added her voice to Shelley's.

Lucile found herself trying to look both of them in the eye at once. However, she was soon spared the effort as David Shelley was collared by another guest and he excused himself, bringing Miss Trade and Industry with him. Alone again, after the thrill of that brief social interaction, Lucile retired a little more towards the side lines. In desperation, she looked towards the only other person she knew – Ruth Evershed – who was still being bored to death by the Home Secretary. Curious to find out what they were talking about, she began discreetly gravitating towards them. Skirting the length of the long, whitewashed room, she paused halfway to replenish her wine before making for the back wall, where Ruth, Harry and Blake were still deep in conversation. But, as she walked away from the drinks table she collided with a young she hadn't realised was standing right behind her, stamping on his foot in the process.

"Ouch!" the young man flinched, almost tripping over himself. "Shit!"

Lucile apologised hastily, quickly placing her glass down as she went to help him. "I'm really sorry," she stammered, one hand on his shoulder as she steadied him again. "I didn't see you."

"Obviously not," he replied, breathlessly.

The two of them looked at one another for a moment. He was young, much younger than everyone else at the function. Dark eyes; so dark they looked almost black. But wide and imploring, softening his features further was a mop of equally dark curls. He sketched a smile through his pain.

"It's okay, honestly," he said, flushing slightly.

Lucile, however, was still mortified. She reached for a glass of wine and handed it to him, before having second thoughts: was he old enough? He was very young looking. But he took the glass and thanked her. She let it go, seeing as she had just crushed his foot. But besides almost breaking his bones, she had at least also broken the ice. They lapsed into small talk.

"I saw you talking to my father," he said, glancing towards the Defence Minister.

Lucile followed the direction of his gaze, to where David Shelley was making sure Miss Trade and Industry's backside didn't fall off by clamping his hand to it.

"He's been fucking her for months and he seriously thinks no one knows it," the now disgruntled teen pointed out.

_You don't say_, Lucile though. But in reality, she didn't quite know how she should respond to that gem of information. From what she knew of Shelley, he had been widowed over a decade ago, so it wasn't as if he was doing anything wrong. But, this was his son she was talking to, and the problem slotted into place. She arranged her face into an expression of what she hoped was sympathy.

"He's bound to tell you eventually," she said, causing the boy to look even more pained. "Maybe he doesn't want to … you know … cause upset?"

She hated these situations, when she was talking to total strangers about their deep emotional problems. She wanted to tell him that there was nothing wrong with a bit of casual sex and welcome to the real world. Mercifully, however, they were interrupted by two people at once. Ruth managed to wriggle away from the Home Secretary and appeared at her side; while David Shelley had put Miss Trade and Industry down for five minutes to collar his stray son.

"Leon, I do hope you're not making a nuisance of yourself," he said, tartly. "Get something to eat and take it up to your room, there's a good boy."

Ruth flushed, as though she'd walked into the middle of a domestic, but Lucile clutched her wrist to keep her in place. Meanwhile, Leon glowered at his father's back and snatched up another drink. Clearly, he was having a liquid lunch that day. As he turned to leave, Lucile raised a smile. "See you then, Leon," she said, kindly. He shrugged at her, but said nothing else.

"What was all that about?" Ruth asked, turning to Lucile.

Lucile just shrugged. "Difficult age, isn't it?"

Ruth raised a brow. "I was never that age," she deadpanned. "Anyway, come and talk to us; we've been discussing the Op and you need to meet everyone."

Before Ruth took her on a circuit of the room, Lucile glanced over her shoulder. Harry Pearce was still in conversation with the Home Secretary, but was looking directly at her. A hard and uncompromising look that unnerved her. It left her with the uncomfortable feeling she was being talked about, and had possibly been talked about since the moment she arrived.

* * *

The incoming text message awoke Lucas with a start. He gasped sharply, sitting bolt upright as he searched out the source of the noise. When he realised what it was, he could have kicked himself. In the pre-dawn gloom, the display of the phone glowed bright, shivering as the device vibrated across the surface of his bedside table. A glass of water shimmered in the disturbance as Lucas grabbed the phone and squinted at the screen. It was from Harry Pearce, and the message was a simple and direct one: "Get in here, you're needed." Having been prepared for the old heave-ho again, Lucas breathed a sigh of relief before rolling out of bed. He jabbed at the power button on his radio as he passed through to the bathroom, shattering the silence with jarring generic pop music.

After eight years in Russia, swiftly followed by a few weeks in a very basic military unit in Cyprus, it was still a novelty for him to have indoor plumbing. Lucas made the most of it, running a hot shower and being sure to take his time with it. He'd passed the point of his new liberation where he was able to think like a free man, without time even the smallest of everyday actions being utterly regimented. Following the previous afternoon's talk with Ros, he had a shirt and smart trousers already pressed and ready to go. Within an hour, he was heading into Thames House, officially back on the team.

It was early enough for the traffic to still be light and free flowing through the main roads as he headed towards the city of Westminster. If Lucas lifted his gaze to the rooftops, he could see the sun rising with the promise of another fine day ahead, lifting his spirits that little bit further as he parked up a side street beside Thames House. Already, other early starters were beginning to trickle in alongside him and he nodded a silent greeting to the few he knew by sight.

"You're late," Ros greeted him as he stepped onto the Grid.

His brow creased into a frown as he went to check his watch, but Ros' voice cut over him again.

"Harry messaged you an hour ago, you're still late."

He thought better of protesting, seeing as it seemed to be giving her immense satisfaction. She stood with a hand on her hip, grinning lopsidedly at him before leading him into the meeting room. If he really was that late, Harry didn't say anything as he took his place beside Ros. Opposite him sat a woman of about thirty-ish, whom he had never seen before. On either side of the stranger was Jo and Ben. Harry was at the head of the table, as always, with Ruth on his right and Ros to his left. The atmosphere was calm, with the assembled agents exchanging low, friendly greetings before Harry leaned forwards in his seat, clearing his throat to get their attention.

"A few things to start off with," he said. "First of all, please welcome Lucile Adams to the team. We've borrowed her from GCHQ for the next few weeks for reasons that will soon become clear."

All eyes briefly glanced over the new girl, making her blush vividly. Nonetheless, she muttered a "Hi" and "Just Lucy" by way of personal introduction. Before she could wilt under the glare of the Section D spotlight, Harry brought them back to him.

"Also," he continued. "It's time to officially welcome back to old friends to the team: Senior Case Officer Lucas North is back full time, as is our Analyst, Ruth Evershed."

Where Ruth was another blusher, Lucas merely nodded an acknowledgement of the returning looks he got. But he had to admit to a secret gratification when Ros rewarded his return with a full smile. Lucas supposed that this was the first full team meeting since the death of Adam Carter, but no one said anything about it. As always, they did their grieving in private and left it there when returning to the fold. Once Harry himself had looked them each in the eye, in that mildly disturbing manner that Lucas had almost managed to forget during his eight year absence, he continued:

"Top of the agenda this week is the Trade and Industry Minister's tour of the north. Sinead Kelly will be visiting Durham, Sunderland, Newcastle and Hartlepool on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday, respectively."

There, Harry paused. His gaze drifted to the right, where Ruth was sat glancing over a stack of papers loosely grouped together in a file. A pen dangled between two of her fingers as she glanced over her notes.

"Ruth, can you give us the latest?" he asked.

She looked up at him and smiled knowingly, before turning to the rest of the team. They'd been waiting for years to say and hear those words again.

"There are no known terrorists at all in that region," she began, sounding almost disappointed. "Threat level is low, so any security will also be low key. Kelly's off to visit the north east's mostly redundant shipyards, view a few cheese factories and drop in on a few car manufacturers. So, because she is going to be out and about, she will have the usual bodyguards and minders. The Defence Secretary has taken some degree of interest in Miss Kelly's security-" she paused while a murmur and a few suggestive looks went round the meeting table – "for reasons I am sure we're all aware of."

"Which is why we've brought in Miss Adams," Harry took up where Ruth left off, casting a quick glance at Lucile. "Ben, I want you and Lucy to work together because you'll be accompanying Miss Kelly on her tour. Lucy can fill you in on that herself."

Everyone turned to Lucile, who didn't seem to notice at first. Lucas noticed she was looking over a page of cipher, her large, soft blue eyes made slightly larger by her reading glasses and a lock of brown hair hanging loose from its ponytail. She flushed again when she looked up and noticed the whole room looking back at her expectantly. To Lucas, she seemed even more jittery than Ruth.

"Oh, yes," she replied, smiling bashfully. "Forgive me, I am paying attention, but I wanted to check this code over before handing it in." She paused and slid the book of cipher to her left, where Ben Kaplan was sitting looking blank. "This is the code you will need to decrypt the messages I send you. Each day is a different page, a different code. Burn each page as you go. It will have details of security arrangements and where you need to be on each day. Burn all messages after use …" she trailed off, realising she was talking to experienced field officer. "Well, I'm sure you know what to do."

"You're alright darling," replied Ben, causing Ros to go rigid with irritation beside Lucas. He could almost feel the annoyance radiating off her. Lucile didn't seem to mind though, or rather she just ignored it. "You coming up there with me, then?"

"Sadly, no," Lucile answered. "I'll be stationed at an underground bunker in Suffolk. But you can hear me over the radio signals. Isn't that how it works, Mr Wynne-Jones?"

She turned to look at Malcolm, who sat up in his seat. "Call me Malcolm, please," he replied. "And yes. We had a station here that you could have used, but sadly it was compromised. But you'll be alright in Wiltshire. We've already cleared it with the Home Secretary, the Defence Secretary and the Minister herself. They're all in the loop."

Harry's expression darkened at the mention of the compromised station they were using, memories of Connie James creeping back into his memory. Ruth and Lucas exchanged a look, a tacit understanding passing silently between them. However, it was Lucas himself who stepped in to divert the meeting, now that Lucile's job had been clarified.

"What of the great chocolate poisoning?" he asked. "Is there any more news about that?"

Ruth livened up a little, shuffling once more through her papers as she answered: "Actually, yes. It has been confirmed as a hoax, but the company has already had to recall and dispose of millions of pounds worth of products. The group claiming responsibility gave the name 'Black Flag'. I want to spend today looking into them and seeing what I can find out."

Harry looked satisfied that Ruth had everything under control on that front and turned to Lucas and Ros. "If you two could go down to the factory again and see if anything new has turned up," he said. "It would be a great help. There's every danger that these people are planning more industrial hits."

Ros turned to Lucas and sketched a smile. "You and me again," she whispered, looking far from unhappy about that – unlike the last time. Turning back to Harry, she added: "Fine."

With Ben heading north with the Minister, Jo assigned to helping Ruth and Lucile about to be despatched to her underground bunker; the meeting ended. They filed out, each taking a moment to personally introduce themselves to their GCHQ colleague. But once Ros and Lucas had peeled away from the Grid, they headed up to the roof space for a breather, away from the others. Despite the dizziness induced by the height, Lucas took in the view of London afforded them up there. He could see into the distance, the gentle curve of the river and the bridges spanning the width. The sun was up fully, by now. He could see the swarms of traffic swelling in the streets below. Construction sites swinging into business and people the size of matchsticks rushing through the streets, heading for shops and offices.

He stopped at the barrier, with Ros close at his side. The height, unsurprisingly, didn't seem to bother her. She looked perfectly relaxed as she scanned the horizon, the clear blue skies reflected in her eyes. She squinted into the sun, looking out over the river and the little tug boats navigating the placid waters below. Lucas hated to intrude upon any private musings she might be having, but he couldn't keep his concerns to himself.

"Another numbers station," he began. "It doesn't sit right with me."

She turned from the view to look at him properly. "Why's that?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I think it's just the lingering effects of Connie James."

Ros pursed her lips at the mention of the traitor's name. "That deceitful bitch is gone. Speak no more of her."

Ros was still an enigma to Lucas. She seemed constantly annoyed and irritated at the smallest of things, but when speaking of someone who had wronged both her and the service as a whole, she seemed oddly relaxed – dismissive, almost. He guessed that Ros had simply stopped caring about Connie. He turned around so that he had his back to the city, and was facing a Georgian chimney stack – an altogether less inspiring view. Its whitewash tinged black and worn down by years of city smog and acid rains.

"She'll have guards though, won't she?" he asked, meaning Lucile.

"Of course," Ros answered. "Don't worry about it. It won't be like last time."

Satisfied, he raised a smile and looked at Ros sidelong. "So, you and me then is it?"

Ros smirked, but otherwise kept her eyes fixed on the far distance. "Looks that way, doesn't it?"

"Certainly does," he replied. "Are you okay with that?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" she looked at him then. "You and me, we're good together. Proved that in Cyprus. Let's ratify it here."

They held each other's gaze for a moment, like they were searching one another. Lucas wasn't about to argue, he didn't want to. Everything seemed lost to him when he returned from Russia to find that his wife had moved on, started a family with another man and left him in the past. It hadn't yet occur to him that he could also be part of someone else's future. Not so soon.

* * *

For Harry, the morning seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. Sat in his office after the team meeting and undisturbed by intrusions from frustrated colleagues, raging HR staff or panicked politicians, he found himself with some rare free time. Time in which the name 'Black Flag' had started to ring some bells in his memory. He opened his desk drawers and rummaged through them one by one, as though the answer might be in there. But all he found were unfiled reports, unsigned paperwork and the incriminating photograph of Connie James and her old KGB handlers that had landed her in the shit just a short month previously.

Black Flag momentarily slipped from his mind as he looked at the picture, wondering just when Connie had turned on them. It still didn't make sense: she was his friend; he trusted her and he protected his trust the way a blushing village maid protected her maidenhead. It wasn't anybody's for a doughnut. But Connie now made as much sense to him as Malcolm secretly working for the Mossad or Ruth selling state secrets to the CIA. Even now, he was searching for some mitigating factor in Connie's betrayal. Not so much to exonerate her, but to exonerate himself for having placed his trust in her in the first instance. In short, he was still smarting from the blow she delivered.

Harry turned the picture over, flipping it face down between his fingers and studied the blank back. There was nothing there; no secret backing tape that could be peeled away, nor magic ink revealing the secret behind Connie James' conscience. Nothing. He heaved a sad sigh and got up out of his seat. It was well past noon and when he looked out over the Grid he could still see Ruth squirrelling away at her desk, alone. Jo had stepped out with Ben for lunch and Ros and Lucas hadn't yet returned from the factory. Malcolm was gone, too. Probably nipped home to check on his mother, as he was wont to do during the lunch break. Ruth, however, had no excuse.

He strode across the Grid, straight to her desk where all he could see was the top of her bent head. A few strands of loose, dark hair had fallen loose of their bindings and flopped against the paper she was working on. She heard his approach, looked up and smiled. Now, Connie James was pushed out of his mind, as he looked out over the Grid and saw Ruth looking back at him. Just two years ago, he thought he'd never see her walk through those doors again, and now here she was. Permanent, this time. Which was the real reason he had refused the Defence and Home Secretaries requests to send her on that field Op.

"Come out for lunch with me," he said.

Making the suggestion sound like a command was purely unintentional, and he worried that he had offended her. But Ruth felt affronted by it, it didn't show. If anything, she looked happier.

"Thought you'd never ask."

Soon, the two of them were making their way to the nearest deli, taking their time as they strolled through the streets now swelling with people doing the same as them. As they breathed in lungfuls of petrol fumes and congestion, Harry found himself worrying that Ruth would soon start to miss the clean sea air of Cyprus. But she did not say anything, about any of that. It was as though she had never been away.

"You know Black Flag have existed before?" she asked, as they took their newly purchased sandwiches to the nearest riverside bench.

"I thought it sounded horribly familiar," he answered.

If Harry was honest with himself, he didn't know whether it was horribly or not. The fear and suspicion was merely a learned response from years of bitter experience. He took a bite of his sandwich and nodded for her to go on.

"They were founded in 1968 in Paris," she explained, struggling to prize open the packet she had in her hands. "Damn thing," she cursed. "Anyway, all they did was daub the walls with Situationist sounding slogans, organise illegal sit ins and go fishing in private rivers as an 'up-yours' to the establishment. They were more of a pain in the arse than a real threat. However, the leader died in a motorcycle accident and they simply withered away. Until now."

_Until now,_ Harry thought to himself. But he'd seen the type in his own student days: those trustafarian types (as today's youth would call them). They all walked round in German Army Surplus jackets with novels written by Camus and Sartre jammed in the pockets with the titles facing outwards so every could see what sensitive intellectuals they all were. Then they'd be marching through Trafalgar Square brandishing placards berating the pet cause of the day or spouting utter shite from Speakers Corner. They all added to the spice of life, he supposed. But this is a different time: a new age of direct action, a different class of protester.

"Still, keep digging," he advised. "God knows what they're planning."

Having finally managed to prise open the sandwich packet, Ruth now had her hands full. She leaned back against the bench, letting him put his arm around her shoulders as they both looked out over the river.

"Don't worry," she assured him. "I'm on it."

* * *

It was dark inside the disused storage hut. Almost too dark to see, but for the light spilling in from a high overhead window. Leon looked up to where the dust motes swirled in the shaft of light, momentarily distracted from what was going on elsewhere. It was warm and humid inside, almost enough to induce him into sleep. But for Emma calling him back to the here and now.

"Look," she said, bouncing a tennis ball up and down in the palm of her hands. "Watch."

She threw the ball against a back wall, where it bounced first off the walls itself before slamming into the concrete floor. Suddenly, a searing flash of bright pink flame exploded from the ball, a loud bang and the air was filled with sulphurous smoke. Leon choked, coughing violently into the sleeve of his jacket. Within seconds, his eyes were watering. A few of the others had already pushed their way out of the building, gagging on the smell and the smoke. Emma, however, looked pleased as punch.

"What do you think? Impressed?"

He had to admit, he was. But he hadn't gone there to admire her pyrotechnic skills. He'd gone to tell her what he'd picked up at the social gathering his father had held. What he had missed had been picked up on the pinhole spy camera and he wanted her to see it. With the other members gone, Emma led him outside, blinking into the bright sunshine as she went. They were in an industrial estate outside North London, right to the back where the units were mostly unused. Most had closed down, or were simply waiting to be re-let. It was quiet, and those who'd fled the building they were just in, were starting make their tentative way back inside.

In the palm of his hand, he held a pen drive with footage and documents stored on it that he'd managed to access from his father's computer.

"Take it," he urged her.

She did so, lip curled into a half-smile. "Thanks."

"They're sending someone, I couldn't make out who, to some bunker in Suffolk. From there, she's directing the Minister's bodyguards. It could be an opportunity to, er, make a statement." He suggested.

For a long time, Emma didn't say anything. She merely looked at the pen drive now in the palm of her hand, frowning at it as if it may impersonate that tennis ball at any minute. Eventually, she closed her hand over it and turned her gaze upwards to meet his.

"Leave it with me," she said. "I think we might be able to do more than that."

He hoped she had more tennis balls, but couldn't imagine what they'd do beyond that. It certainly beat the egg-throwers hands down. He was about to walk away when Emma called him back.

"How did you get all this?"

"MI-5 are briefing my Dad every day," he answered, shrugging. "Stupid bastard needs to protect his files more carefully." And scan the room more carefully for bugs, he thought.

He could feel her eyes on his back as he walked away. But he didn't look back. If he hadn't proved himself now, he never would. If he hadn't, he simply wouldn't bother again.

* * *

**Thanks again for reading and, if you have a moment, reviews would be welcome. Thank you.**


	3. Blind Alleys

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot.**

**Just to clarify, the Animal Liberation Front/Militia is real and the 1984 poisoning hoax really did happen. Everything else is invented by me, including 'Black Flag' (except the name, which I've 'borrowed' off an American Punk band).**

* * *

**Chapter Three: Blind Alleys**

Ros' eyes narrowed as she focused on her computer screen, the monitor reflected in her widening pupils as she leaned forward to see it better. Immediately, the background bustle of the Grid receded to an inconsequential buzz as she began reading in earnest. Dated as July, 1984, the article was first published well over twenty years previously in the Guardian newspaper. The Mars Company had been performing tooth decay experiments on animals, provoking an outcry that included a hoax chemical poisoning identical to the one she and Lucas had spent that morning investigating. But in that case, the reason and objective was clear from the off. Whereas their case seemed random and purposeless. No animals were being harmed by the company affected and no trade laws were being violated. Nothing to raise the ire of the Animal Liberation Front.

Sighing in frustration, Ros slumped back in her seat and glared at the monitor. Only briefly, she raised her gaze to see where Lucas had got to, only to find him answering a call that had been put through to Jo's desk phone. Looking back at her computer, she started going through the options in her head. Either the coincidences were too much and Black Flag was a front for the Animal Rights brigades, or she was about to waste time, effort and money into barking up the wrong tree altogether. She didn't know what she expected to find on the Animal Liberation Front's website, but she decided to try it anyway.

What she found, a few seconds later, almost made her laugh. Albeit the awkward laugh of one caught in a no-man's-land between the deadly serious and the ridiculously absurd. Their website was illustrated with photographs of men dressed in black balaclavas and urban camouflage army surplus. Their paramilitary posturing strangely juxtaposed by the fact that they were cradling puppies and fluffy white rabbits in their arms, instead of AK-47s and homemade rocket launchers. Reminding herself that these people were still dangerous, she had to pull herself together as she continued to browse their website. There were more articles about hoax poisonings, some in England but more in America and Canada. But there was no mention of any other groups, and less still of Black Flag.

One thing that did catch her eye was the 'rogue's gallery', featuring photographs and biographical details of every person they had caught infiltrating their organisation. Her heartbeat quickened as she scanned all of them. One was an undercover reporter from the BBC; another from Sky News. Others were members of law enforcement and, even more sinisterly, others were people who had simply become disillusioned with the group and left in high dudgeon. Although she breathed a silent sigh of relief that none of the victims were MI-5, she still started jotting down the names so they could be contacted and warned. Jo could do it as soon as she returned from Suffolk.

In the meantime, Lucas had ended his call and come over to join her with fresh brewed tea for them both. She thanked him as she accepted her cup, blowing on the steam before taking a scalding sip.

"Look at this," she said, nodding towards the screen. "No idea whether they have anything to do with Black Flag, or the poisoning, but they still need watching."

She couldn't believe Animal Liberation Front had been allowed to slip under the radar. They could have been watching them; they **should** have been watching them all this time. But the time for self-recrimination had passed. Wheeling her chair aside to make room for Lucas, she started making a note of the names while Lucas explored the site for himself.

"That was Ben on the phone," he said, volunteering the information. "He and the Minister have arrived in the North East okay."

Ros breathed a small sigh of relief. All she needed now was Jo to get back from Suffolk, where she was helping Lucile settle into the bunker for the security op, and she could get started on warning the ALF targets. So far, the whole Op was running smoothly and, just for once, she wanted the whole thing to pass off without incident. Meanwhile, Lucas had stopped navigating his way through the website and was sat back in his chair, glowering at the monitor. He seemed on the brink of saying something as his brow tightened and he drew a sharp breath. But he stopped and sighed heavily instead.

"What is the matter?" asked Ros, half-smiling at his obvious conundrum.

"I'm trying to think of a way in with these people that won't end with my mug shot being plastered all over their website," he explained.

Ros put down her pen for a second. "If it does, I'm pretty sure Malcolm has what it takes to pull the whole site immediately. But look, I don't think that's going to be the real problem here."

"No?"

She took a moment to marshal her thoughts. "We'll speak with Ruth when she gets back, she'll know more about how these people operate, but it's not as simple as that. Anyway, like you say, we could be barking up the wrong tree entirely."

It was like a fairground hall of mirrors. Each group, disparate and fractured, was a distorted reflection of the other. The real ones lost among the warped shapes of the others, bleeding into each other and conjoining to form a mutated mass. Stay too long, and you could lose your way and be running blind down dead ends and false corridors forever, while the genuine group at the heart of the op wreaked havoc on the outside. Already, before they had even begun, Ros felt herself already to be groping her way clumsily through the opaque distortions of groups, sub-groups and criminal networks. Ros closed her eyes and sipped her tea, savouring the last few minutes of normality before Ruth returned to bring them the day's good news.

* * *

Jo and Lucile climbed out of the car to be met with a lungful of clean, country air. It was almost serene with the nearby woodlands surrounding a small, squat village nearby. A sandstone church up a hill was the tallest of the buildings, this far out of London. A narrow river wound through the outskirts of the housing area, leading into the woods. Lucile's cover story was that she was working for Cambridge University and carrying out a survey of insects and butterflies whose natural habitat was deep inside the aforementioned wooded area. Perfect for the location she and Jo found themselves in.

Whereas the sun lit up the quaint, chocolate box style village nearby, the woods by contrast were strangely dark and almost ominous. Like something from a seventies Hammer Horror film: thin, far set birches and pines in a cluster, with no real footpath to lead the way inside. Shaded by a thick canopy of trees in full summer bloom, it was chilly and silent as the sound of the already sparse traffic was smothered. Even Lucile shivered as this new environment closed in and around them. If there was any sound to be heard, it was unseen birds high overhead, taking startled flight if one of them accidentally trod on a twig. The crack amplified and carried all round, even alarmed them. More than once, Jo lost her footing and cursed under her breath.

"You're a city girl too then?" asked Lucile as she reached her hand out to Jo, helping her back up.

Jo rolled her eyes. "It's that obvious is it?"

Lucile laughed, dispelling some of the foreboding atmosphere that had accumulated. "When I first got married, I thought I'd love a place in the countryside. Now I'm thinking it'd do my head in."

They paused a few minutes later, when they drew closer to what they knew to be the Ministry of Defence installation, so Jo could consult an MoD map. Just over a mile into the woods, it was outwardly fenced off with warnings about trespassing. The sign clearly stated that the land belonged to the MoD, but beyond that, there was no information. Besides, it was set well back from the footpath favoured by local dog walkers and the fifty feet high fences topped with razor wire were too much even for the most intrepid of bored kids. The bunker itself, they found, was underground and accessible only by a manhole that had been obscured naturally by falling leaves and branches. To the naked eye, the entire compound looked simply like it was private and awaiting development, rather than something already being there.

"Here goes," said Jo, clearing the entrance cover and levering it open.

Inside, an iron ladder, rungs fixed to the stone walls, led downwards six feet. She went in first, with Lucile close behind. When, a few minutes later, they found themselves in an impenetrably dark and freezing cold space, Jo had to rummage blindly for a torch until they could get their bearings and switch the electricity back on. It probably had not been used in years and Lucile would need to spend the next day or so just getting it stocked up. But when they found when they did get the lights back on was passable enough.

Out of necessity, everything was basic. The kitchen was the size of a postage stamp, the women's dormitory was enough to house several people, and the bathroom was all stainless steel and basic wall fitted showers. Lucile could only be relieved that she would be alone for this Op, with the exception of the guards who would be stationed in the local village and checking on her every day. There was only one way in and out, making it easy to defend but difficult in the event of a fire. The broadcasting suite was towards the rear of the bunker, next to a utility room and recreation area. It was small, but had everything she needed to function properly. A red light shone above the door, signalling off-air status. Everything seemed in working order.

It was an hour later, when Jo left to return to Thames House, that Lucile felt a thrill of excitement course through her. If she proved herself capable on this field Op, she knew she would be called into action again. To do this – real spy work.

* * *

"The trouble is, they're not a cohesive group." Ruth toyed with a silver bracelet round her wrist as she spoke. Everyone else in the meeting room: Harry, Ros and Lucas, were silent. All of them were watching her, looking her in the eye and making her nervous. "With groups like the Animal Liberation Front and Animal Liberation Militia, they don't operate like the IRA or Al-Qaeda. There are no cells or any central body to infiltrate. They're more like a collective of activists who have merely adopted the names of the groups."

There she paused, trying to find a way to explain more succinctly how these people operated. For her colleagues, it would be like clutching at smoke. There were no meetings, no organised events, no recruiting or even any advertisements beyond the group's websites. They were not affiliated to anyone else. There was no leader or central organising committee. None of the usual terrorist structures. They had a core set of values and any individual who shared them had a right to call themselves a member. It was as simple as that, which made it hazy for them. The look of dismay in the eyes of Ros and Lucas was almost palpably real. In a poor response, Ruth raised a pained smile.

"There almost is no way in," she admitted with a shrug of her shoulders. "Unless, one particular individual comes up on the radar, and you can try and get in with them."

"Except they act alone," said Ros.

"But wait," Lucas cut in. "On their website, they're breaking into labs. Whole groups of them. Surely that's a cell we can infiltrate?"

"I'm afraid not," Harry answered, sparing Ruth the effort. "In my limited experience of dealing with these people, they all just arrange a date and bring nothing more than wire cutters."

"So what can we do?" Ros asked, sounding more irritable. "We can't just sit back and let them cause chaos, regardless of the name they're using."

Once more, they all turn to Ruth like she's the oracle of terrorist networks. She can feel the heat rising in her face as she wilts under the collective glare, which was one more aspect of life in MI-5 she had managed to airbrush out while in Cyprus.

"The thing is," she began. "I think we need to wait until we learn more about Black Flag themselves. The similarities in tactics are undeniable, but it's still a mistake to automatically lump all these different groups together. We know Black Flag existed before-"

"But you said they didn't do anything!"

Ruth stalled as Ros cut in, but let her speak.

"No, I said they did nothing dangerous," she clarified. "They were still a monumental and expensive pain the arse. For all we know, however, the shared name is pure coincidence. We need to hang back and see if they make another move."

Harry flinched. Almost imperceptibly, but Ruth saw it and she knew what he was thinking.

"We have no evidence to suggest they're armed or particularly dangerous to human life," she pointed out. "It will be another industrial target. But we need to observe and learn. Like I said, these groups are never like ordinary terrorists, with clear goals, objectives and methods."

There was a long moment of drawn out silence in the meeting room. A clock on the far wall ticked down the seconds, while the others all looked from one to the other, mutinous and restive. Lucas shifted in his seat, fixing Ruth with a hard look.

"So, you're saying we should do nothing and wait for them to make the next move?"

Ruth suppressed a sigh. "No, that's not what I said," she explained, forcing herself to be patient. "But surely you can see that while we know so very little about them, what they want or what they're trying to do, we're limited here. We're completely blind."

_I don't have all the answers_, she wanted to scream at them. Two years out of the service, two years of threats, groups, disgruntled wannabe paramilitaries to catch up and these people had caught her wrong footed. Ruth could feel herself slowly deflating under the disappointed looks of her colleagues. But she couldn't just magic a way in for them, she didn't absorb intelligence like the process of osmosis. Like them, she needed something to go on.

Dejectedly, she drew back her chair to leave. The whole situation troubled her, but she stood by the minimal intelligence she had gathered thus far. Black Flag were mimicking the tactics of others, while posing no immediate threat. They simply didn't have the physical capabilities and if they did, MI-5 would know about it through criminal back channels. Emerging on to the Grid, Ruth looked up to see Jo returning from Suffolk and raised a hand in a gesture of greeting. But she didn't stop to say hello. She returned to her desk, tapping the space bar of her computer to wake it up again with the intention of carrying on with her search for Black Flag. But before she could begin again, she noticed that Harry had followed her out of the meeting room. He nodded towards one of the vacant interrogation rooms, a silent gesture for her to follow him in.

She did, and closed the door behind her. The room they were in was basic and grim, with just one window set high in the wall and barred with iron. It cast a long, narrow shaft of light through the gloom onto the bare, lino covered floor. Harry pulled out a chair for her at the interview table, while he moved to the other side. Nervous about what had prompted this private audience, she could feel her heartbeat quicken and self-justification bubbling inside her.

"Harry, before you say anything, I really am trying here. You know I'm not Mystic Meg and I can't just make stuff up to fill in the intelligence gaps-"

"Ruth!" he held up a hand to silence her, which she did, in stuttering stages.

"Okay, okay," she said between deep, steadying breaths.

She looked at earnestly, across the small space that divided them. He looked back at her, his eyes coal black in the poor light.

"Stop panicking," he implored her, softly. "The only person who expects you to have all the answers is you."

However much Ruth wanted to believe that, she couldn't escape the look in the other's faces as she all but admitted her powerlessness. "But Ros and Lucas-"

"No," he cut her off again, reaching across the table so that his hands found hers. He tugged her forwards, making sure he had her undivided attention. "It's not you, you know that. It's just the job. The blind alleys. Surely you remember what it's like?" he paused there, watching her reaction carefully.

Despite her continued dismay, Ruth managed to raise the ghost of a smile on her face. "I remember," she replied. Maybe she did. Maybe she had whitewashed her job with MI-5 while in Cyprus, screening out the bad bits and glorifying the good to make up for the extra space in her memory. There was always bound to be a comedown.

"You can't give up," he told her, leaning over the table. "I won't let you."

She leaned forwards, too, meeting him halfway where they closed their eyes and kissed each other. This at least explained the use of an abandoned interrogation room instead of Harry's very un-private office. But he had faith in her, and that gave her a little more faith in herself. She hadn't forgotten that about MI-5: the way they shored each other up, even in the darkest of hours. Well, perhaps they weren't all quite so touchy-feely, but Ruth could live with that.

* * *

Emma was poring over a map in the living room of the squat they had taken up residence in. Leon watched her carefully from the back of the room. Suffolk had been marked out in red ink, and the name of the village jotted down in a notebook at her side on an old, unsteady table. All the flirtatiousness had gone out of her, now. It was as though someone else had started inhabiting her skin. She had been scowling at that map and running random Google searches for hours. She only stopped to field calls and send messages. Occasionally, when it seemed as though she had forgotten he was there at all, she would look up and fire questions at him. Questions about where MI-5 had stationed their agents, both in Suffolk and in the North East. The latter he could scarcely answer since the Agents would be tailing the Minister at a very discreet distance.

"Is your father going with her?" asked Emma, looking up from the map.

Leon had his eye trained on a gap in the window boards, trying to see outside into the sunny gardens. He jerked round to look back into the room. "Of course not," he replied. "Dad's busy in London. He can't just go swanning off on public tours. What are you planning, anyway?"

Emma grinned, the first trace of personality she had shown since he passed on the information he had about the Minister's tour of the north. "You'll just have to wait and see," she teased him. "But I want you in on it."

A flicker of triumphant excitement curled in his belly, but Leon was careful to school his reaction. The last thing he wanted was to look like a kid at Christmas, but it was still just beginning to touch the sides of how he felt. There was only one problem that snagged at him as he pushed away from the back wall and joined Emma at the table.

"If you want me in on it," he said, sliding into a seat. "Then isn't it rather essential I know what 'it' is?"

Emma was not so easily won, however. The impish grin was back on her face as she rolled her eyes. "You just follow our lead," she said, cupping his chin with her right hand, pinching his cheek with her left. "Come along for the ride, see how we operate, and you'll be fine for the next operation, I promise."

He tried to tell himself he didn't mind. But he could feel himself being drawn in with one hand, and pushed away with the other. It was all so typical of Emma and he couldn't help but give in and go along with it, she always knew better than he did.

"Thank you," he murmured, half-heartedly.

Emma kissed him then, pulled him in close for reassurance. "You've done brilliantly, Lee," she said, running her hand through his hair. "You've given us the chance to do something huge, and you will be rewarded for it, I promise. But if I'm going to pull this off, I'll need the help of the others. Other's who're way more experienced than you. Do you understand?"

She led him over to an old, flea-bitten sofa close to where he was waiting earlier. They were alone in the house, the others had gone out and some had headed to the North East, to Durham where the Minister would be starting her tour. Leon couldn't imagine what they would be doing there, but he would soon hear about it – he hoped. But there was something that had jarred with him since that morning's initial planning. Something he hadn't yet voiced and wasn't sure whether he would. It seemed as though Black Flag already had people based there, suggesting that the network was much larger than he had been led to believe. It all enticed him further in, built up the expectation and the thrill of what they were doing. Emma was like an ideological strip tease, showing just enough to keep him interested while the real deal, the bits he really wanted, were still out of sight and out of touching range.

"Are you attacking MI-5, or the Minister?" he asked, suddenly nervous. "What exactly are you planning?"

"Wait and see," she insisted, cutting off any further protest with a kiss. "You'll have everything you want in due course, I promise. I need you for the next two days solid. Can you work that out with your dad?"

"Sure, he won't even notice I'm gone. But what if the police and the spies are already on us?" he asked, voicing another latent fear.

"Don't worry, they won't be," she replied, almost dismissively.

She cut off further protest the best way she knew how, and Leon didn't complain. It was better than worrying about things that hadn't yet happened. But even as she unlooped his belt and fumbled for his zip, all he could think of was what was around the corner.

* * *

**Thanks again for reading, reviews would be welcome if you have a minute. Thank you.**


	4. Threads

Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you.

* * *

**Chapter Four: Threads**

Spinning a delicate, intricate web between the rear view mirror and the back of the driver's sun visor, the spider lost at least seven of his eight footings. His sheer downwards drop was interrupted as the car swerved a corner. The silk thread he continued to secrete suddenly turned from a place of sanctuary to a perilous rope swing at the mercy of shifting gravitational forces. This dizzying pendulum cycle only ended when he came to rest on the steering wheel clutching hand of Lucas North. A respite in a world turned upside down which lasted barely a nanosecond before the spider was shaken off with a muttered, irritable curse. Violently propelled over to the passenger seat, he landed on his back on the bare knee of Ros Myers who shrieked piercingly and flicked him to the floor before he could so much as writhe his ungainly frame the correct way up. From there, it was a downward thrust of a size eight stiletto heel, and one meagre arachnid existence was snuffed out forever.

After the fall, the ending was swift and painless, but utterly merciless. The only lamentation was for the mess on Ros' shoe, a mild inconvenience expedited as the spider's remains were smeared across the carpeted foot rest.

"Did you get the bastard?" asked Lucas, briefly taking his eye off the road to look at Ros.

"I should've shot it," she dryly replied. "Yeah, he's history."

Lucas smirked and returned his attention to the road ahead. It was getting on and they were nearly late for work. He would have been on time if he hadn't stopped to pick up Ros on spur of the moment, but it seemed a gentlemanly thing to do. Since it'd been years since he last had the chance to do the 'gentlemanly thing', he found he couldn't resist. But, now they were stuck in traffic and Ros was uncommunicatively hunched over her phone.

Inexplicably, Lucas found his thoughts drifting back to the spider. It began with him wondering whether a member of the Animal Liberation Front had ever squashed a spider. It was something the vast majority of people did without so much as a second's thought. But now, Lucas was thinking. Being a spider was very much like being a spy. You worked in secret, in dark crevices where you could weave your web and trap your unsuspecting prey in the deceptively strong, adhesive threads. Always intertwining, always intricate, always easily swept away by the most basic of feather dusters. When your web was gone, you were back to square one and even the narrowest of shafts of light, falling at just the wrong angle, could blow your cover. And if you fell in plain sight, the ending could be just as swift. A bullet in the head was just as decisive as a rolled up newspaper, or airborne telephone directory descending from nowhere.

You think you're safe; you think you're invisible. You're probably wrong.

"Who was that King who watched a spider build a web?" he asked, once the traffic moved off again.

"King David?" she answered with uncertainty. "Better ask Ruth."

No, that wasn't him. While he cursed his lack of attention in History class, the traffic moved off once more. But as it did, a small idea percolated happily in his head. Why walk straight into the Black Flag/ALF web when he could tempt them into his own?

* * *

Digestive biscuits didn't make for the greatest of breakfasts, but Harry was content all the same. Ruth had made them both proper coffee, none of that instant nonsense and she served it right: thick as tar. Together, they settled in the meeting room with the smart screen tuned to the BBC, catching the last of the breakfast news. While the inane shenanigans of z-list celebrities was recounted, Harry groaned audibly, like an aging Daily Mail reader and glowered darkly up at the screen.

"Why is this even on the news?" he demanded to know. "Why?"

Ruth rolled her eyes. "Because people don't want to be bombarded with doom and gloom over their morning cornflakes, perhaps?"

This theory only seemed to cause Harry actual, physical pain. "Since when have we been a nation of such delicate snowflakes?" he asked, eyes narrowed and expression scandalised. "And cornflakes are for sissies," he added, reaching for another digestive.

Ruth was happy, after the previous day's bumpy ride. She informed Harry of the call she got from Lucile earlier that morning, confirming that the first morning's broadcast had gone smoothly and Ben was in place for the beginning of the Trade and Industry Minister's tour of the north east.

"She's got plans of every place the Minister is visiting, so she knows exactly where Ben should be stationed and where he should move the minister to next," Ruth explained.

There were coordinates involved, and travel directions that she didn't go into because she still didn't fully understand the logistics involved herself. But she made sure Harry got the gist of it. Before she could finish her explanation, however, the news cut to the Minister's tour. The news clip showed a black car pulling into the driveway of a factory, the early morning sun casting long shadows across the asphalt. A small knot of men surged forwards to open the door and, for just the briefest of moments, Ben Kaplan was visible among them, blending in with the others. Harry smiled, 'famous at last,' he thought wryly to himself. Ben vanished as soon as he appeared, and the Minister herself climbed out of the back of the car.

"And they all lived happily ever after," said Ruth, turning away from the screen.

Satisfied that the tour was going well, Harry flicked the switch and watched the screen go dark. It was one less thing to worry about, as they focused all their efforts on finding out more about Black Flag. About which Ruth had lost a night's sleep over.

"They're political," she said. "Maybe they're copying the tactics of the Animal Rights lot to deliberately throw us off the scent, knowing we would lump them all in together."

The thought had occurred to Harry more than once. But the cautionary streak in his nature couldn't accede to closing off the Animal Rights investigation. Besides, the clue was in the name of the group itself, as Ruth had pointed out a few days before.

"There is a history of anarchists attracting the same type of people who join up with Animal Lib," he pointed out. "A certain over-lap, shall we say."

"Harry, there's a certain over-lap between veganism and animal lib. Doesn't mean we can get the police to arrest every single person who's ever been to Glastonbury just on the tangential off-chance," she countered.

"So, what do we do?" asked Harry, sighing heavily. "We don't even know who they are."

Ruth still had no answer and the pair of them descending into a brief silence that was broken by neither one of them.

"Draw them out."

Lucas' voice startled them both. They whirled round to see the man himself loitering in the doorway, suddenly apologetic.

"Sorry, I did knock," he said, before turning to Ruth. "Do you know which King watched a spider in a cave?"

Perplexed, Ruth shot Lucas a dubious look. Her hesitation in answering came not from ignorance, but from her internal struggle to find any relevance in the question.

"Robert Bruce," she finally enlightened him. "After an overall successful campaign, Bruce suffered a heavy defeat and had to flee the field in fear of his life. He hid a cave, completely despondent. While there, he noticed a spider trying to reach its web high in the crevices. It failed six times, but refused to give up and kept on climbing. Deciding he could learn a thing or two, he decided to give the battle another go and won. Er, why?"

While she answered, Lucas expression lit up triumphantly. He slid into a seat beside Harry and opposite Ruth.

"I want to set myself up as an activist who shares similar goals to Animal Liberation Front," he began explaining. "See if I can strike up an affiliation with them and see if I can build inroads that way. I need a website, first of all. An email to communicate through. Perhaps a blog and photo gallery. Something to show the admin of their official website and make me look like the real deal and draw them to me, rather than the other way round."

Harry's expression wrinkled, making him slightly concerned. "And you got this bright idea from Robert Bruce's friendly spider?"

Some of the enthusiasm drained from Lucas, he sagged back in his chair almost despondently. "In a manner of speaking," he admitted. "But I think it makes sense."

"Actually, I think it's a pretty good idea," said Ruth, causing Lucas to perk back up again. "It'll take time to build up a bond of trust, but that's always the way. I say speak to Malcolm and he can get you your website and blog. I can type up some posts and back date them to fabricate some history for you."

"Oh, I am not saying it's a bad idea," Harry quickly cut back in. "I just didn't see the spider link. Regardless, it's good. Do as Ruth suggested, speak to Malcolm and we can get you up and running. My only concern is you ending up on their rogue's gallery."

"We can pull the site and block their servers if that happens. But there's more," Ruth cut in, suddenly on her feet. Harry thought she was about to bolt for the door following her clear eureka moment, leaving both him and Lucas hanging on a cliff edge. But she merely began pacing, her method of choice for marshalling a rush of thoughts and ideas into cohesion. "Broaden the appeal of your fake site to encompass Anarchism and Anarcho-Syndicalism. Tempt in as many social misfits as you can and see if you can draw out any information. It may take time, but it's a lot quicker than what we're doing at the moment: which is basically nothing."

Harry nodded, signalling his assent. How could he argue, when the alternative was sitting back and waiting for the other side to make the next move? Now that he had thought about it a little more, he decided he might even give Lucas' animal-loving, anarchism credentials a bit of a boost by faking an attack or two and laying it at Lucas' door. After all, he'd done it before and quite enjoyed it.

* * *

The carved wooden edifice that was the door to Leon's father's study remained shut and unyielding. He stood there looking at it, as if willing it to open through sheer mind power alone. But after another restless, sleepless night he doubted he had the mind power to so much as fight his way out of a wet paper bag. Whenever the vacuuming downstairs stopped, he could hear the muffled sounds of the conversation his father was having on the phone. He'd get an absolute bollocking if he walked in there while his father had people with him, but Shelley senior normally didn't object to phone calls being interrupted. If it was that sensitive, Leon would be waved back out again. All the same, he decided to play it safe and remain out of sight.

He's talking to her, he thought to himself as he picked up a few hushed sweet nothings, and willed himself to vanish on the spot. Still, whatever it was Emma was planning, she clearly hadn't done it yet. Leon felt himself temporarily paralysed by a tremor of last minute nerves and wrestled with the idea of walking away from it all. He could tell his father what he'd done, come clean and put it right. He would never have to see Emma again. But that thought made him feel cold and alone, a feeling he never wanted to have to contend with ever again.

"I miss you too, darling," his father said, ending the call. "Take care, now."

Two seconds later, he heard the click of the handset being replaced and Leon paused again. His hand trembled as he reached out to knock. Before he could, however, his father called out and ushered him inside. When he peered around the door, he found his father prepared to rush back out again. Leon sighed inwardly.

"Dad, I need to talk to you," he said, making a try for it anyway.

"I'm busy Lee, can't it wait?"

David Shelley had already pulled his jacket from the back of his chair and was shrugging it over his shoulders.

"Please, Dad, it'll only take a minute."

His father fixed him with a pointed look. "Half a minute."

It was as good as it got, so Leon let himself inside properly. With the clock ticking down on his allotted time, he decided to get straight to the point. All doubts about spilling the beans banished.

"I want to go away for a few days; maybe a week," he explained. "A camping trip with friends from school. Is that okay?"

His father was stuffing papers into his briefcase while Leon spoke, barely paying him any mind.

"Of course it's okay," he replied, making no fuss. "Just text or call to let me know you're still alive. Don't get too drunk and pass out in the street-"

"It's not like that," Leon quickly cut in. "I promise."

His father paused half way to the door and raised a knowing smile. "I'm sure." Before he left, he looked Leon up and down carefully, as though noticing something amiss for the first time. "Are you okay? You look rather pale and … well, distracted."

Suddenly thrown a lifeline to come clean, Leon hesitated. But on the wall behind the desk, the clock continued ticking. There was no time. There was never any time.

"I – I'm fine," he stammered, half-heartedly.

With no further ado, his father left for whatever meetings and parliamentary sessions his day had in store and Leon found himself watching the spot where he vanished for a long time. It was too late to back out now, so at length he made his way outside with his rucksack packed with the change of clothes Emma had given to him the day before. Inside was a boiler suit, like the ones forensics wore, only black and with equally dark hoods. To obscure their identities further, they all bought Guy Fawkes face masks. Green tinged, fixed malignant smile and neat goatee. If anyone stopped them, they'd look like Anonymous activists. Not illegal, but still a pain in the arse enough to warrant a little undue attention if they get stopped by the Police.

Leaving the house, Leon emerged onto the street outside and looked both ways before turning left. When he reached the bottom of his street, he found her there already. It was only her in the car, the others were making their own way down to Suffolk. She rolled down the window and greeted him with a smile. "I was beginning to think you'd bottled it."

Feeling a little more confident now that he was in her presence again, Leon returned her smile. "Never," he replied. It wasn't a complete lie.

* * *

Ruth called Lucile one more time before they left for the evening. Everyone else bar Harry had already gone and there would be no one else in the office before nine the following morning. Still, she was beginning to feel like an old mother hen, constantly clucking over the newer recruits as though she'd never been away. Even Harry had looked at her as if to say 'you worry too much.'

"Hey, Lucy, just checking up to see if everything's okay?" said Ruth, once her colleague picked up.

"Yes, it's fine, honestly!" Lucile laughed back. Clearly, she thought Ruth was worrying too much as well.

"I know, I know," Ruth sighed, apologetically. "You know how it is: I'd worry if there was nothing to worry about. But here, you need anything call me on my house phone or mobile. Any time."

"I will, I promise."

When she hung up Ruth logged the call, six pm precisely, before shutting down her computer. All the while, Harry waited impatiently by the pods, tapping his toe to hurry her along. Not wishing to keep him waiting, she grabbed her jacket and jogged across the Grid until she was level with him.

"Can we go now? Contrary to popular opinion, Ruth, the Grid isn't my actual home."

Narked by his crabbiness, Ruth rolled her eyes. "Well come on, then. I'll buy you a large whiskey to make up for wait."

She was in the mood to celebrate anyway. The day had been more productive than she could have imagined. Although she was unsure as to whether an Anarcho-Environmentalist was an actual thing, they had spent the day turning Lucas into one all the same. Something to catch the eyes of both the Anarchists and the Animal Libbers at the same time. A few shared goals and similar agendas. Not enough to be rivals; just enough to be allies. Only time would tell whether it was enough to actually work.

* * *

The local pub was a proper pub. There was a fireplace in the lounge bar that looked as though it was actually used during winter months. Complete with a large Irish Wolfhound fast asleep, his tail thumping rhythmically against the worn carpet as chased rabbits in his dreams. The couple who owned the pub were a middle aged married couple who recommended their vast selection of real ales. Opting for something a little lighter, Lucile ordered a gin and tonic to have with her salmon salad and made her way to the back beer garden.

Since she and Pete were trying for a baby, Lucile had quit smoking. But she still liked to ease the cravings through some cheeky second hand smoking outside. It was the scummiest thing she had ever indulged in, but when the cravings came she was like a junky, shaking and sweating for even the faintest of blessed nicotine vapour trails. Besides, the even was warm and balmy and still bright. Jade green treetops, emerald fields and squat, sandstone houses stretched out downhill. The church bells tolled the hour. It was a pocket of England forgotten by time and rapacious urban developers. She was keen to savour every free moment she had before returning to London; so much so, she thought she might have been hasty in her decision to abandon her quest for a rural retreat. After all, the baby she and Pete were undoubtedly soon to have would love it. The mini Lucile's and Pete's could play freely, if the traffic levels in this village were anything to go by. By the time her food and drink arrived, she had made the decision to stop by the local Estate Agents to see what was going locally.

While she ate, she called her husband on her mobile and chatted between leisurely mouthfuls. When that call ended, it was almost seven pm, just time for one more gin and tonic before heading back to the bunker. Inside the pub, she got a thrill out of telling a local fellow drinker her false name cover story – an act that made her feel like a proper spy, rather than a plain old liar. She couldn't understand why some of her more jaded colleagues grew sick of it, but for them – she supposed – the excitement was gone and the rush no longer carried them through. For her, it was bolstered as the landlady seemed to be listening in while she served the other punter.

"Is it just the woodland wildlife you're covering?" the landlady asked, interested. "Our hanging baskets get all sorts of butterflies and whatnot. We could keep an eye out, if you like."

Before Lucile could answer, the older gentleman chipped in too.

"You should come and see my gardens: our roses get them every summer," he said.

Lucile merely smiled and reached for a card she kept in her purse.

"I'm only based in the woods, but if you see anything unusual, make a note of what it looks like and call this number," she handed over the card that with a phone number of a fake environmental agency. If they did call, they would get Ruth Evershed pretending to care about butterflies and their reports instantly forgotten. She just hoped they had the good sense not to squash their subjects in an effort to 'help'.

She left at eight pm, after bidding the landlady and old punter a farewell. Outside the pub, she took in the view one more time and breathed a grateful lungful of clean country air and set off at a brisk pace on the path to her temporary home.

* * *

There were eight of them in total. Emma was coordinating, with six others all pulling their weight behind her. That only left Leon, who was under strict orders not to leave Emma's side and do everything she asked without hesitation. He thought he could live with that, seeing as this was his first ever operation, but it changed Emma. Once again, all the warmth went out of her and was replaced by this machine like demeanour. She was in charge, and her charge was exercised ruthlessly and without feeling. She slipped away, once the others had donned their clothes and masks and slipped into the woods, to make a private phone call to someone Leon didn't know. It seemed to take forever and, when he checked his watch, he noted that it really was getting late. Almost eight pm. Whatever they were planning, it would possibly take all night seeing as there was no way they could simply walk into a bunker. Especially not an active MoD bunker. Truth be told, he was still rather perplexed as to how they were going about this.

Still, Emma had made it abundantly clear that it wasn't his place to question, so he fell into pace with her as they slipped into the woods. They hadn't realised it would be so dark, but this merely went in their favour. Rays of pale, dying sunlight filtered green through the overhead canopy, scarcely lighting their path a few feet ahead of them. Despite the heat of the summer, the ground beneath their feet was still soft and springy, concealing their footsteps even if they hadn't covered their shoes. Several times, Leon went to speak, but Emma shushed him every time, ending the last effort with the threat of a slap if he made another sound. Finally, they reached a fenced off area with signs warning off trespassers and they knew they had reached the spot.

Emma placed a hand softly at his elbow, drawing him well back from the spot. They retreated out of sight of the beaten track. Once concealed, the slipped their masks firmly into place and held it place by drawing their hoods down low. As Leon sorted his out, he caught sight of some of the others, similarly concealed from view, but watching out for any approach.

"Now we wait," Emma whispered low. "Even if it takes all night. We cover each other if we need to piss. Show me your phone?"

He knew she meant to see the time on the display, so he pressed a button to wake it up and tilted it towards her. It was just gone eight pm. Emma nodded and turned back towards the MoD fence. All their phones were on silent, but they were to send messages to one another, a silent relay as soon as human footsteps were heard. If whoever was in that bunker came out of the installation itself, it was down to Emma to act. That was as much as Leon knew. If the person didn't come out at all, he didn't know what would happen. He guessed they could all go home with no harm done and low spirits.

Once waiting commenced, time seemed to slow. Left alone with his thoughts and last minute doubts, Leon was once again submerged with the urge to run. Only his pride kept him rooted to the spot behind a thicket of trees and gorse. Every small sound seemed amplified in the dark, silent woods. Birds taking flight, rodents rushing through the undergrowth, even the odd owl calling out as the night settled in and the woods darkened further. After what seemed an age, Emma's phone vibrated, Leon could hear the soft hum from within her pocket. She answered it, shielding the screen so the light didn't betray their location. Leon could see it, too. It was just gone nine pm, and a lone female had been spotted approaching the site.

* * *

Lucile hadn't had the time to check the local Estate Agents after all. It was dusk by the time she left the pub, and growing darker by the time she reached the woods. Inside the forest, it was good as night itself. Cursing her own negligence, she used the light of her mobile phone to light the way as best she could and quickened her pace as she picked her way home cautiously. Stray tree roots jutting through the earth almost caught her out more than once and she had to throw out a hand to steady herself against the nearest tree. She knew she was going the right way, she had already made the journey a few times over the last twenty-four hours since her arrival. But it was more treacherous at night, and after stumbling over another tree root she dropped her phone. She cursed and dropped to the ground herself, groping for it hurriedly before the lit up screen went dark and stung her hands on some nettles in the process.

"Shit!" she cursed aloud.

Ignoring the sting, she snatched as her phone and paused to catch her breath before continuing. When she did, she slowed down and took her time instead hurrying herself into a frenzy. As she neared the MoD's land, she breathed a sigh of relief all the same. She reached into her bag, fumbling for her keys as she approached the main fence, and it was there that a pin-prick of light from into the bushes caught her eye. She froze, peering intently into the undergrowth. The same light, like a mobile phone lit up, came again from ten feet down. Shone directly at her. She whirled round, peering in that direction, about to call out.

"Hello?" she finally called, gathering her wits. "Hello, is anyone there?"

The sound of her own voice answered back in an echo. An owl hooted, but other than that there was nothing. Heartbeat racing, she took a few steps towards where she thought she had seen the second light. But as soon as she moved, the sound of footsteps hurried away behind her while, simultaneously, another light shone further down the tracks in the opposite direction.

"Who is that?" she called out, growing angry.

Dizzy and disorientated she spun in a circle, trying to get the culprits in view but it was much too dark to see into even the near distance. Now she could hear footsteps all around her, surrounding her and she didn't even know whether she was simply imagining it or whether it was there. Lucile's brief anger flared and burned away, succumbing to desperation as a cold sweat prickled against her skin.

"Please," she cried out, tremulously. "Show yourselves!"

The rustle of fabric and a heavy footfall sounded directly behind her. Lucile spun round, panting heavily as her lungs struggled to stay apace with her heart and a leering, blank eyed masked face loomed out of the darkness. She barely had time to register it before the shrill scream escaped her, resounding off the trees and startling several birds into sudden flight. A small shower of dead leaves and pines cascaded down into her hair as she turned and ran back towards the edge of the woods, dropping her phone again. She had no time to pick it up, she had to run as hard as she could. But, she had barely gone ten feet before she ploughed into something cold and solid. Hoping it was merely a tree, she tried to push herself away and run around it. But it wasn't branches that encircled her waist and held her fast, it was two strong, human arms. Another masked attacker slid one hand over her mouth to stifle her continued screams.

"We are not going to hurt you," the man's voices spoke low in her ear. "Do as we say, and you will not be harmed."

Under the circumstances, it was less than reassuring. But far off, she heard a woman's voice and Lucile's most potent fear of rape subsided, at least. But she continued to struggle all the same. The woman had found her keys, where Lucile had dropped them and was already letting herself into the MoD compound. The man held Lucile all the tighter, making sure she was immobilised. She tried to bite him, but her jaw was clamped firmly shut.

"We will not hurt you," the voice repeated. "That's not who we are. That's not what we do. We are Black Flag, and we're going to make this world a much better place for everyone. Cooperate, and you can share our new world."

Exhausted and drained, Lucile couldn't fight any longer. She let herself fall limp in the big, burly man's arms. Whatever it was they wanted with her, all she could do was hope to throw them off. Somehow.

* * *

**Thank you again for reading, reviews would be welcome. Thank you. **


	5. Worst Case Scenario

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot.**

* * *

**Chapter Five: Worst Case Scenario**

Sipping a cool beer, Ben Kaplan was sat with his feet up on the balcony rail, watching the sun set over the city of Sunderland. Drawing deeply on a cigarette, he watched the river Wear burn in the dying sun's afterglow, and the arch-backed bridge silhouetted against the darkening skies. Further south, church steeples still just about rose above the other rooftops, old sandstone walls at odds with the surrounding modernity. A Londoner born and raised, he had never been so far north before and they were bound for Durham the following afternoon. So far, he had been impressed.

The book he had been reading was momentarily set aside on the glass topped table, just while he had a smoke and took in the views. But as he went to pick it up again, another interruption blocked his plans.

"I hope I haven't disturbed you."

He turned in his seat to find Sinead Kelly standing in the balcony doorway, one hand holding back the net curtains. He ground out the cigarette and sat up properly, as his mother always nagged him to, as soon as he realised the Minister had joined him.

"Not at all," he replied, hastily pulling up a seat for her.

The Minister was still young: early forties, at most. New in the job and keen to make a difference. She had thrown herself into her public engagements with aplomb. But clearly, she was still growing used to life away from back-bench obscurity. Her auburn hair was scraped back into a functional ponytail and she had dressed in casual clothes now that her engagements were done for the day. She had taken out her contact lenses and her blue eyes were slightly magnified by the glasses she wore. Her skin scrubbed pink where she had clearly just washed off her makeup.

While she settled into the seat he offered, he went to fetch her a drink. A small bottle of white wine and a glass.

"Oh, I'll just have a beer too, if you don't mind," she said. "Get enough of that posh stuff at functions."

Ben stifled a laugh. "Is it considered unladylike for female MPs to be seen knocking back pints then?"

Minister Kelly rolled her eyes and sighed. She was alright, really. But he was curious as to why she had come out to join him on the balcony when there was still the odd local businessman and dignitary to rub shoulders with, further down the corridor. By the time he had returned, she had lit a cigarette and was, like himself only minutes before, taking in the view.

"It must be thrilling," she said, her words drifting out with the smoke stream. "Your job, I mean. Must I keep my voice down while out in the open like this?"

"Nah, don't think so," he replied. "In all honesty, it's not that exciting. Mostly reports and surveillance, really."

Minister Kelly turned to look at him, her eyelids drooping with tiredness. "Really?" she asked, sounding genuinely surprised. "Forgive me if I sound a bit of eavesdropper myself, but I hear those broadcasts you get. It's all very mysterious, I must say."

Ben laughed. "Not to me, I know what it all is, how it all works and how it's all decrypted. No mystery for us." He could tell the Minister was still curious, so he explained further. "It's mostly encrypted coordinates, so I know where you're supposed to be going and when. If there's any unexpected threats or disturbances, I'll be forewarned with another encrypted broadcast on this."

Ben held up the tiny transistor radio he carried, one built into his phone and demonstrated the earpiece by letting her listen to the currently broadcasting static with intermittent shipping forecasts.

"How do you know when a broadcast is coming through?" she asked, handing it back.

"I get a blank text, and then two minutes later the call sign plays – just a random jingle – then another two minutes after our girl in Suffolk reads out the encrypted message. No one but me can make sense of it. Once it's done, the encryption is burned."

Minister Kelly looked impressed as she listened with rapt attention. "It is exciting," she emphasised. "Well, I think so anyway. But listen, I really only meant to ask you whether it would be possible to stop off in Durham for a little longer than scheduled?"

"Sure. I'll let the boss know; Harry won't mind."

"I wouldn't ask, but my partner is introducing me to his son for the first time. You know, officially. The boy, Leon, expressed an interest in applying to Durham University, so it might help ease things along if I picked up a prospectus and a little present for him," she explained. "I won't be too long."

"It'll be fine, honest," he assured her, before returning to the last of his drink.

* * *

By the time Lucile has been bound and gagged in the empty dormitory, she had begun to sob helplessly. Immobilised on the cold tiled floor, she could only watch helplessly as the bunker was raided by the people in masks and black boiler suits. She was guarded by one of them, who stood over her wielding a small fire extinguisher he'd pulled off the wall. The door was open, so she tried to count how many there were. But she grew disorientated and confused, no longer able to tell whether she had counted the same person several times. She soon gave up on that.

Loud echoing bangs resonated down the steel hallways, amplified and terrifying. Tears were soon leaking into the tea towel they had gagged her with. She flinched violently at every crash and thump as the place was turned over. After what seemed an eternity, the place was plunged into sudden darkness and blue emergency lights flashed on overhead. Angry, startled voices echoed from the other rooms, but the woman – who Lucile had already guessed to be the one in charge – seemed happier with just the emergency lights. Lucile's own cry of alarm was smothered by the gag and caught in her throat. She turned her head to where she knew there were security cameras, but they had been knocked out, too. They were blind, and nothing, not even people's heights, were being recorded now.

To relieve the pressure of the bindings, she leaned back against the wall to balance herself properly. But the effect was limited and every time she moved, her guard stepped towards her, brandishing the fire extinguisher menacingly. Even an hour following her capture, she couldn't guess what these people wanted. But, after roughly that period of time had elapsed, someone else entered the dormitory and relieved the guard. The new person closed the door once the old one had left to join his colleagues. For a long time, Lucile looked up at her latest silent tormentor, who didn't seem to be armed at all. Although unable to tell due to the person's mask, she could tell he was looking back at her, studying her closely as he slowly closed the gap between them.

Once he was standing over her, Lucile looked up at him unable to say anything. A fresh wave of tears choked her as she silently pleaded with him not to hurt her. Silently, still scrutinising her, he knelt down so that they were level with each other. Her eyes followed him as he descended and knelt, her breath coming in short, sharp rasps of fear. But she was mute, unable to even scream – not that anyone would hear her. To her surprise, however, the newcomer slowly began to lift his mask. As his face was revealed, Lucile could have sworn that her heart stopped altogether for a few seconds. She didn't know whether to be even more afraid, or relieved.

* * *

"You're wrong."

The words, spoken by Ruth, seemed to hang heavy in the air. Harry's eyes widened in surprise, gaping at her over the rim of his whiskey glass. They were seated at Ruth's kitchen table where she was picking at some toast while he enjoyed a night cap and a hitherto amicable chat suddenly turned serious. Although Ruth seemed quite oblivious, the temperature suddenly dropped.

"Come again?" he replied, gesturing with one hand for her to explain exactly why he was wrong.

Ruth didn't skip a beat. "The word's been in use since roughly the early nineteenth century and, although listed as 'nonstandard', the word 'irregardless' is still listed as an actual word in most English dictionaries. So, with that suffix, not a proper word, but it is still classified as a word."

"Most," Harry repeated in a low voice. "But not all. Because I am right: irregardless is not a word."

Ruth sighed heavily. "Jesus, Harry! If 'chillax', 'yolo' and 'twerk' can be added to the Oxford Dictionary after appearing online more than five times in the last week, I'm pretty sure we can make an exception for a nonstandard word that's been in use for well over a century."

"Incorrect use," Harry corrected her, downing the rest of his whiskey. He checked his watch and stifled a gasp. "It's gone midnight. Didn't you want to call Lucile-"

"Don't try that," Ruth cut over him.

"What?" he asked, arranging his expression into something he hoped resembled innocence.

"You're throwing out diversions in fear that I'll prove you wrong," she replied, pointing a finger at him accusingly. "I know you, Harry, and your spy tricks."

"I'm not!" he protested, throwing up his hands in a gesture of defeat. "Anyway, it's too late to call anyone. We should get some sleep ourselves."

Abandoning the remains of her toast in a nearby bin, Ruth heartily agreed. But not without getting a final word in. "I got a report from you the other day," she said, as they each wrapped an arm round the other's waist. "You used a comma before 'and'."

Harry froze on the spot, his expression scandalised. "An Oxford Comma is a perfectly legitimate grammatical mark."

"The word 'and' in itself does the comma's job, Harry," explained Ruth. Then, she relaxed and smiled, still holding him close to her. "I'll let you off. The Oxford comma is an optional extra."

"You're not going to send me to the grammar death camp, then?" he smiled, leaning in to kiss her.

"Not tonight," she whispered, returning his kiss where they stood in the draughty hallway.

They were discussing something, but neither of them could remember what it was. It was late; long past midnight. Whatever occupied them, it would come to them in the morning.

* * *

During the initial search of the bunker, Leon had sensed his presence was more a hindrance than a help. He still didn't know what was going on, but Emma seemed to have found what she was looking for: a large book of cipher, which she was using to scribble out messages already. It was then he made his excuses to go and watch over the girl they had bound and gagged in the women's dormitory. Emma readily agreed, under the condition he try to get information out of her or, even better, win her over to their side. That was how he came to be kneeling in front of the captive minutes later, the mask lifted from his face.

He watched her for a full minute. The only light in the room came from a blue emergency light. It made the woman's face pale, her eyes appear almost silver and even the tears that still streaked her cheeks glittered blue when she turned to look at him. Although he did not get a good look at her before, he knew she looked familiar and now he can see the recognition in her eyes too. Her laboured breathing gradually stabilised as she studied him in return. The others would go crazy if they knew he had shown the girl his face, but he no longer worried about it. It all seemed irrelevant.

"We've met before, haven't we?" he asked.

The girl nodded her head, slowly. Carefully, Leon reached behind her head to remove the gag that silenced her.

"Don't cry out," he urged her. "I just want to talk."

With the gag removed, he shifted so that he was sat beside her against the wall. Their posture mirrored each other as they both sat with their knees drawn up to their chest, their faces turned towards one another.

"You're the Minister's son, Leon. I remember you from that dinner party. We spoke to each other," said the woman, her voice weak and shaky.

It was only a few short days ago, he remembered it well despite the conversation lasting barely five minutes. He hadn't even found out her name.

"I didn't know it would be you," he said, keeping his voice low. "I thought it was the other one. What's your name?"

"Lucy," she replied, sounding hoarse.

He had closed the door and he could hear the others still turning the bunker over and calling out to each other. He knew they wouldn't be overheard or interrupted for some time. Some way off, he could see a sports bag packed with personal belongings including a bottle of mineral water poking out of the top. Leon went to fetch it for her and held it to Lucile's lips while she drank. Once she'd had enough, she pulled her head back and was just able to wipe her own mouth on her shoulder.

"Thank you," she said. "As abductors go, you're all rather friendly."

Her voice sounded stronger after being rehydrated and she even managed a small laugh.

"We're not abducting you," said Leon, sitting back against the wall again. "This will be over by morning. Our leader just needs you to broadcast a message, then you will be free."

Lucile frowned. "What message?"

"I don't know the precise details," he admitted. "But she is composing it now. Just broadcast that message, help us, and we will free you unharmed."

Her face was still wet; damp streaks reflecting the pale blue light. On her face was small, sad smile as she replied: "I can't do that. Not without knowing what the message is and what will be done once it is received. I don't think your friends will be letting me go unharmed after that."

"They won't hurt you," Leon insisted. "No one will be hurt-"

"What are you even doing?" Lucile cut over him. "What is the point of this?"

Leon didn't reply immediately. He couldn't. No one must be allowed to know what they were doing until it was already done, when it would be too late and their position was already consolidated. "It will be like Catalonia," he replied at length, sounding vague. "Only this time we will make it last. We will make it work."

Lucile het her head fall back against the wall, pulling her hair even further out of its ponytail in the process. Loose strands of dark brown hair were plastered to her wet face, but she couldn't push them away. "Idealism," she sighed. "Everyone knows you can't negotiate with idealists. I bet you're talking about the Catalonian Anarchist experiment as well, aren't you? The one that was smashed by the lovely General Franco roughly ten minutes after it was set up."

"It won't be like that," replied Leon. "Different times, different eras-"

"You're right about that," she cut over him, defiantly. "Now there's even worse fanatics and idealists waiting in the shadows to exploit weak governments-"

"Scaremongering!" Leon shot back, pulling himself to his feet. Lucile was suddenly cowed by his brief temper flare. She looked scared again, looking up at him as though he might strike her. He allowed himself a minute to calm down again. "That's Government scaremongering. It's what they want you to believe: that we're under constant attack by extremists. Fear instils blind loyalty in people, it's how they get inside your head. Give people a chance to live freely and they won't need to resort to extremes. Can't you see that? It's a vicious circle of fear, extremism and misplaced loyalty. Black Flag are going to break it."

"Now you sound like a conspiracy theorist," she replied. "Do you think we faked the London Bombings-"

The rest of her question was cut off footsteps hurried down the corridor outside and the door was flung open. Leon hastily replaced his mask before any of the others could see just how personal their chat had become. Nervous and jittery now, he turned to see the whole group gathered in the failing blue light, at the mouth of the door. It was Emma, under the mask, who stepped forwards with the book of cipher and several loose sheets of paper. She thrust just one of them at Lucile. The Cryptologist had become terrified again, her voice tremulous as she tried to ask what was going on.

"Is that your call sign?" Emma demanded to know, pushing herself right up into Lucile's face.

Lucile could barely manage to nod.

"Your next broadcast is at seven am?"

Again, Lucile nodded. Emma responded by giving her another sheet of paper, this with their own cipher recently added. Leon couldn't begin to fathom it. It just looked like a series of random numbers to him, but he knew that Emma had coded it herself, using Lucile's method in the books. The papers and the books were left at Lucile's feet while one of the others untied her hands. Once freed properly, Lucile could finally study and decode the message they wanted her to broadcast.

Leon watched her studying it, working it all out in her head. He was surprised by how swiftly and methodically she worked, even in poor light. When Lucile looked back up at her captors, her expression was dark with suspicion.

"All you want me to do is change the direction in which the Trade Minister is travelling?" she asked, sounding a little more confident.

"Do this for us, and you will be free to go. Think about it."

With that, they all left. The clock on the wall of the dormitory read three am and, Leon guessed, the others would be stationed throughout the bunker. He, however, stayed with Lucile. He was relieved that she had been cut free, but knew also that her charge was solely his. "I won't let them hurt you," he said. "I promise." The words sounded hollow, even to him.

* * *

At the beginning, Lucas' dream was always silent and always still. It was dark, but he could see snowflakes spiralling all around him and drifting down from the night sky. He could feel them, cold and wet on his face as he huddled deeper into his overcoat. He turns a street corner, the silence is shattered as a single gun-shot rings out and the chase begins again. He couldn't see his pursuers, he could only hear their rapid footfalls gaining on him. They're almost on him when he realises that no matter how hard he runs, he isn't getting anywhere. He's running into strong winds that have blown up out of nowhere. Closer, closer and closer. He can hear the FSB men calling to each other, he can smell their cologne while he's left flailing into an invisible wind machine, all but pinned down. Fingers brush against the back of his coat, grabbing a fistful of the fabric, he's pulled backwards. A heavy metallic door slams in his memory and he awakens suddenly. Breathless and disoriented, sitting up and glaring intently into the darkness. The panic remained, the fear and cold sweat making his skin prickle unpleasantly.

In the bed behind him, someone stirs. He'd forgotten she was even there. His breathing steadies as Ros' arms close around his middle and her breath makes the skin at the back his neck tingle.

"It's over now," she murmurs, voice still thick with sleep. "You're not there any longer."

As his eyes adjusted to the light and he could just see her next to him, sitting up and holding him. Her blond hair and pale skin were most visible as she coaxed him back down into bed. Offering little resistance, he still didn't say anything. The residual effects of the dream was like poison seeping through his veins, making him tremble. Once settled, he felt Ros' lips pressed against the side of his head, a firm kiss and a firmer hold under the bed sheets, soothing him.

"Ssh, go back to sleep now."

But every time he closed his eyes the same feelings of being watched, of being hunted closed over him in the silent, stifling darkness.

* * *

Lucile studied the cipher they had given her closely, decrypting it over and over to see if she had made a mistake. It never changed, but it kept her mind busy. The message itself looked so innocuous, just a harmless diversion. But the reasons behind it were opaque. Had they gone to all this trouble to play a stupid trick on the Minister? No matter what it was, the message could only come from her so whatever the consequences, they would fall back on her. Whenever she heard voices outside, she strained her ears to see if she could pick up any clues about Black Flag's ultimate Op. But she got nothing, other than that someone or something was already in place. Unable to pick up anything else, she turned her mind towards getting a message to Thames House in the event of being killed. Worst case scenario, she told herself when she felt her resolve flagging.

When the clock hit four am, she checked Leon again. It struck her that he was just a kid, still restless and troubled. Nevertheless, if he and his friends were going to kill her, she had no intention of letting them get away with it. Her feet were still stiff as she crawled over to her sports bag to retrieve a pen from its depths. Once she had it, she returned to where she was before. Outside, she could hear one of the others pacing the corridor between the station and the kitchen. Every time she heard the slow pacing boots pass her door, she froze and held her breath until they receded again. Then she got to work on encrypting an altogether different message.

It had to be one that, if found by her captors while she was still alive, would not incriminate her and could be easily explained. So she encrypted it using the old cipher from her first day at the bunker. To the casual eye, it would just be a sequence of random numbers. She checked the page number in the book and made a note of it at the bottom of the page. Included in her message was the name of the organisation that captured her, the name Leon Shelley and their aims summed up in two words: "Catalonia experiment". Once completed, she needed it kept safe somewhere on her body. If the message needed to be delivered, it would have to be done post mortem.

_Worst case scenario_, she reminded herself again and reaching for a tampon from her sports bag. She always carried one in case of emergencies – but she hadn't quite envisioned this emergency. She double checked Leon, who now had his back to her. She waited longer, until the pacing passed her door one more time. Then, she opened the tampon and stuffed the message inside the plastic applicator and used the cotton tampon itself to prevent the rice paper slipping out again. Then, she hunched down behind one of the other beds towards the back of the room. Even if Leon did awaken, he would see nothing. Her nerves hit a peak, her hands trembled as she unbuttoned her jeans and quickly pushed the plastic capsule deep inside her. She gasped as a sharp pain shot through her abdomen, causing her to wince. But it was all done in a second and she had made herself decent again after another brief moment.

If they killed her, the message would be found during her autopsy. She had no illusions about that; she knew every crevice of a murder victim was searched thoroughly for clues. They would check her down there for signs of rape, and that's when they would find it. On the other hand, if Black Flag didn't kill her, she had some entertaining explaining to do to the doctor whose job it would be to extract the damn thing.


	6. Playing Dead

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot.**

* * *

**Chapter Six: Playing Dead**

It was always cold six foot underground, but especially so during the long, frigid hour before sunrise. No natural light entered their subterranean world, but Leon could sense the creeping dawn all the same. He sat on the top bunk and drew his knees up to his chest, shivering against the cold draught that somehow managed to steal through the solid packed earth and steel. Even in a small bunker with eight other people, he still felt like the last person alive at the break of day. A peculiar and unique loneliness he could never quite give voice to, no matter how often he lived through it.

Emergency lights still lit the dormitory, a pale blue that barely reached the bedframes where he still crouched. Outside, he could hear people moving in the far distance. The hatch was opened and people climbed in and out to escape the slowly simmering claustrophobia inside. He hadn't escaped it himself; he too felt the walls closing in as time dragged on. Before he could sink into self-doubt, he slid down off his bunk and crossed the room to where Lucile was spread out on a thin mattress she had dragged to the floor. But for the slow rise and fall of her chest, she was motionless.

He paused, thinking she was asleep and unwilling to disturb her. But she heard his approach and sat up with her back to wall and wide awake. The look in her eyes was empty and listless now. Exhaustion had done for her fear.

"Can you not sleep, either?" she asked, breaking the silence.

"Not really. You?"

Lucile shook her head as well, a slow and jerky motion. Now that they were talking again, Leon found himself desperate to break the deadlock that had arisen between them.

"What's the worst that can happen if you do broadcast our message?" he asked. "Your employers can't argue. Just tell them your life was in danger. Which it isn't, but they don't know that."

He realised that Lucile would tell them about him, but it hardly mattered. Even if he did end up behind bars, Emma and the others would get him out again. When he met Lucile's gaze, she was as devoid of emotion as before, but there was just a hint of defiance in the way she tilted her chin up. Her gaze steady.

"Whose life will be in danger if I do broadcast that message?" she asked.

"No one's," he replied, exasperated. "You heard them: that's not what we're about. Look, we have comrades in the North East and we just need to get a message to them-"

"But why this channel?" she cut over him, her voice rising. "If I broadcast a message from this station, the only person who gets that message will be my colleague who is coordinating the security detail of a Government Minister. I already know they want me to change their route, but why? Your friends have gone to an awful lot of trouble just to make the Minister take the scenic route to Durham. So what it is? An ambush of some sort?"

Leon couldn't answer. He rocked back on his heels, suddenly unbalanced and knocked his hood down. Growing annoyed with the boiler suit, he stripped it back to the waist in annoyance. Lucile laughed. "Watch you don't spill your DNA everywhere."

"It's a bit late for that," he replied, acknowledging the fact he had blown his own cover a long time ago.

"It's too late for a lot of things," said Lucile, quietly.

He glanced at his watch: five am. _Not too late for some things_, he thought to himself. He leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him so he could drag himself fully out of the boiler suit. Footsteps still paced the corridor outside, attraction Leon's attention only briefly before Lucile spoke again.

"How did you get mixed in with these people?" she asked, leaning forwards and almost appealing to him. "Weren't you at school?"

His thoughts had begun to race and her question made him pause.

"Boarding school," he explained. "I was … alone …" his voice trailed off as he tried to think of the right words. It sounded so desperate, even to his own ears. "It was online. I was a Communist back then-" Lucile laughed, making him stop mid-sentence. "Why is that funny?"

There was a twinkle in her eye as she laughed; she was finding his political convictions genuinely amusing. After a moment, she managed to compose herself. "You weren't a Communist, Leon. You were a schoolboy."

His felt his whole body stiffen at the condescension; something Lucile noticed also. Quickly, almost as soon as she said the words, she threw her hands up in a gesture of surrender.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry. Please, carry on. You were saying…"

That was his cue to pick up where he left off, but he waited a moment while the irritation inside him burned itself out.

"When I was fourteen I figured out how to over-write the school's fire walls," he admitted sheepishly, as though he suspected Lucile might put him in detention. "I could visit any site I wanted and spent time searching for Marxist and Leninist forums-"

Again, Lucile was grinning and Leon thought he knew what was coming next.

"I know what most fourteen year old boys with unfettered internet access would do, and I don't think German philosophers feature too prominently in it," she remarked, still grinning. Pre-empting another maturity related upset, Lucile was quick to placate him. "I'm sorry, I know you're not like that."

However, Leon wasn't upset at all. He could feel his face flush as he found himself confessing to another juvenile misdemeanour. "Actually, I did. But only for others and for a price."

Lucile looked impressed. "That's very enterprising for a Marxist."

As quickly as he veered off course, Leon found himself quickly jolted back on it again.

"Which is where Emma comes in," he said. "On the forums, she and I sort of built up a relationship and we moved from there on to Skype, which I had on my phone for when I needed to talk to Dad. About a year after we first spoke, she told me that she only frequented those forums to find potential recruits for her own group. She said, Communists usually had the right ideas but we were being misguided. Some of the key tenets of Communism, like the dictatorship of the working class, could never work and would always lead to tyranny. Her way was far better, because there will be no dictatorship. The Government will fall, but will be replaced by Unions that were directly accountable to the workers. She has loads of brilliant ideas on how to run the country, but with no way to implement them."

He paused there, sensing he was going into information overload. Lucile looked unmoved. If anything, her stance seemed to have hardened.

"Revolutions are sometimes bloodless; I'll give you that," she replied. "But the civil wars that inevitably follow never are. Have you thought about that? Have you thought about what will happen to the old regime once you've built your little Anarcho-Syndicalist Utopia? People like the current PM, the royal family and all the different political groups you will inevitably be fighting against. You can't make them magically disappear and what's needed now, before you throw your life away, is a reality check."

Leon didn't answer. He sat on the floor with his gaze directed at the lino under his feet. Truth was, he hadn't expected to get this far. He hadn't expected any of them to give this a shot and, as such, hadn't thought beyond the end of the week. Even less had he thought of what they'd do if they actually did get real power? He closed his eyes, trying to marshal his thoughts and only opened them again to check the time. It was nearing six am. One more hour until the broadcast deadline. Emma would be on her way soon.

He got up and extended a hand to Lucile. "Come on," he said. "We're leaving. Now."

* * *

Ruth winced against the intrusion of the alarm clock and rolled over in bed. No matter how deep she buried her head, however, it didn't drown out the sound of the siren-like wailing. She groaned audibly as Harry stirred beside her. One deceptively strong arm reaching out and jabbing the snooze button so hard Ruth though he might have broken it. But it was too little, too late. Both of them dragged themselves reluctantly out of bed and stared at one another, bleary eyed and still too sleep-drugged to articulate so much as a 'good morning'.

However, twenty minutes later and undergoing the restorative process of morning coffee, conversation slowly took shape.

"Before last night's scrabble row," said Ruth. "I was meant to ask, do you want to break into a Government Lab with us tonight?"

Uncertain as to whether he'd heard that right, Harry glowered at Ruth down the length of the kitchen table. "What?"

A frown creased Ruth's brow. "I didn't explain that very well, did I? Well, it's for Lucas actually. Ros will definitely be up for it and I think I can rope Jo in as well. Ben's still away, so I'll be needing all the help I can get-"

"I'm sorry, Ruth, you're still not explaining this terribly well," he butted in incredulously. "You want to get the whole of Section D in on your newly awakened criminal desires?"

"For Lucas!" she cried back, dropping a slice of toast in the process. "We still have contacts with the guy who runs that lab in Surrey, don't we? We can arrange it all before hand, get everyone kitted out in black overalls and masks and fake some footage of a break-in."

Finally, the penny dropped. "Oh, for that blog and website of his."

"Yeah, he needs 'extras' so to speak," she explained. "It can't just be him on his own, so I was thinking of maybe getting a few stand ins to be his ready-made network of activists. Make him look like the real deal."

Harry was deep in thought for a minute. When he spoke again, he sounded keen.

"Good idea, actually. But I have a few other suggestions I want to thrash out in a full team meeting," he explained. "Delay the break in until tomorrow, or maybe even Thursday. There's something else I've been thinking of."

"Sure, but we don't want to delay for too long," replied Ruth. "If Black Flag strike again before we do, things could go very badly for us."

Harry didn't need to say anything to that. However, he reasoned to himself that it could at least wait until their working day had begun properly. With that in mind, he turned his attention towards fixing them both some proper breakfast.

* * *

Lucile, still pressed against the wall, looked at Leon's hand suspiciously. He had thrown her a lifeline and she had no choice but to trust him. But still, she hesitated and thought of his colleagues pacing the corridor outside and, undoubtedly, guarding the hatch. Slowly, she lifted her gaze from his hand, up to his face. His expression was steady, resolute; where she was full of doubt.

"And how do you propose we fight our way out of here? Two against seven."

"We don't," he replied, lowering his hand. "Now play dead."

"What?"

"Lie down, go all floppy like you passed out," he whispered low.

Already, he was hauling her into a fireman's lift. With no time to argue, Lucile cooperated but as soon as she went limp, he dropped her. The pair of them sprawled out on the lino. She could feel Leon extricating himself from her and when she opened her eyes again, he was kneeling over her looking breathless and apologetic.

"I'm really sorry, but I'm going to have to drag you out there."

"Get on with it!" Lucile hissed back at him.

Before the words had even left her, however, he had already moved and grabbed her ankles. Moments later, she felt herself being dragged across the floor like a sack of potatoes. Once more she let her whole body go limp, her arms dragging behind the rest of her and her eyes closed. She slowed her breathing, willing her heartbeat to recede at the same time. It was only a short distance to the hatch, which was enclosed in a small ante-room, screened by double doors from the rest of the bunker.

"She's passed out!" Leon called out to one of his unseen colleagues. "Maybe she's diabetic or something, I don't know. She just fell over and went all limp."

"Shit, Lee!" a woman's angry voice called back from some distance. "You were supposed to be looking after her. Is there any insulin in her bag? What about other meds?"

During the small commotion that followed, Lucile concentrated on keeping every muscle in her body relaxed and limp. She didn't even dare move her eyes. A task made all the more difficult as adrenaline began to course through her and every innate instinct she had was screaming at her to fight. She had to ruthlessly suppress every reaction when, suddenly, two burly men – not Leon this time – suddenly picked her up. Just one tense muscle or one involuntary movement and her cover would be blown. She couldn't tell where they were taking her, but one man was delivering a running commentary as they went.

"She's breathing; she's alive, but she's freezing…"

It washed over Lucile, who had to concentrate on ignoring a blinding pain in her head as it collided with a door as they entered another room.

"Careful, you fucking idiot!" Leon shouted at her handlers.

Mercifully, it wasn't so bad. A sharp pain gripped the side of her head where it had connected with what felt to Lucile like a door handle. But she remained utterly still and let the pain wash over her until she felt herself being spread out on a table.

"Now give her space," the woman ordered. "Leon, you stay. Did she see you?"

"What?"

"Did she actually see you?"

Lucile guessed she was talking about Leon's disguise which he'd binned about an hour ago.

"Oh, that. No," Leon replied. "I just panicked when she passed out and took the damn thing off. It was getting in the way."

"Fair enough," replied the woman, "but don't let her see you if she comes round. I need my cell intact and I need you most of all."

While this exchange was taking place, Lucile could hear the two other people moving around. A tap ran, and Lucile guessed she was in the kitchen, arranged on the table. More than one, Leon made an attempt to lose the woman, so they would be alone again. All she had to do was play dead until seven, miss the broadcast and either Black Flag would abort the mission and Ben would raise the alarm. All she had to do was play dead.

Before long, however, two hands were placed gently at the sides of her head. She could sense the person close to her, looking down and scrutinising her slack features. She could hear them breathing and smell the stale sweat on their body. Lucile could even feel herself being silently assessed before the other person held her head steady. When she was let go again, she felt a towel being draped over her face. Whatever Leon was planning, she could only hope he would get on with it.

"Hold her," the woman instructed Leon. "Like this."

"What are you doing?" Leon asked. "Look, just give her five minutes in peace and she'll be fine. Maybe get her outside in the open air?"

"Let me try this first."

Despite the small, budding sense of dread building up in her, Lucile remained perfectly reposed and relaxed. Dust from the towel over her face was irritating her nostrils, but she knew it was set to get a lot worse than that. The taps ran again, a glass or container was filled with water. Even now, seconds before her worst fears were confirmed, she clung on to the desperate charade.

"Emma, that's torture," Leon was pleading. "This is against everything we stand for."

_God, he is so hopelessly fucking naïve_, Lucile thought to herself.

"Yeah, that's after our mission is complete, Lee," replied Emma. "You know we have to play by their rules until we get there."

Just as the first few drops of water hit her face, the towel was suddenly whipped away. The cold liquid ran down her face, into her hair completely missing the target. A row broke out immediately as Leon fended off Emma. All Lucile could do was lie there helplessly and silently pray for some kind of divine intervention. Even if she decided to fight, the Black Flag goons were just outside the door and they wouldn't stand a chance. Instead, Lucile kept herself immobilised, playing dead, on the kitchen table and trying not to think of anything. Before too long, however, the towel was back and Leon banished from the kitchen, replaced by a more reliable henchman.

In a last ditch, desperate attempt to work her way out of the situation, she tried to stop breathing altogether. As the water drenched the towel, she held her breath for as long as possible. But her chest soon hurt, her lungs swelling with the effort and the water kept falling and falling. The water was still running down her nose and getting in her mouth and when her survival instincts did finally override her, she sucked it all deep into her chest making her cough and choke like a landed fish. Reactions she had no control over, completely involuntary. In a panic, she rolled over and regurgitated the water she had ingested over the side of the kitchen table.

"Feeling better?"

Lucile's head was spinning to the point where she worried she might pass out for real. Like Leon, the woman had taken her mask off. She was fair haired and blue eyed, late twenties and slim built. She was looking at Lucile beside a masked and suited henchman.

"Where's the other one?" asked Lucile, as soon as she was able. "The younger one."

She didn't want to give away that she knew Leon's name.

"Never mind him," replied Emma. She was leaning casually against the kitchen counter, regarding Lucile carefully with her arms folding across her chest. "You're just in time for the broadcast."

"No-"

"Jono," Emma said, nodding towards Lucile.

The henchman moved, pinning Lucile back down to the kitchen table while Emma filled another jug of water. The towel was back over Lucile's face in an instant, despite her struggling with every ounce of strength she had left. She tried lashing out with her legs, but with a burly man bearing down on her chest, there was little she could do. She screamed out, the sound cut off half-way through as the waterboarding started again. The more she struggled, the more she panicked, the faster she heartbeat raced, forcing her to gasp for the oxygen she was being starved of. This time, it went on and on, until Lucile really did start to feel herself going limp. By the time it stopped again, her lungs felt like they were on fire. Once more, she was soon gasping and retching up water that had gone into her lungs. When her vision cleared, she could see that Emma had arranged the kitchen knives in a row along the counter. All in order of size, from the largest down to the smallest, all neatly in line. She knows, Lucile thought, she knows Leon was helping her escape.

"Where is he?" demanded Lucile, glaring at Emma. "What are you doing?"

Emma was completely unperturbed. "What do you care? All you need to do is read out this message and you can go free and unhurt."

No matter how half-arsed their plan had been, it was all they had. But Lucile knew it was vital that she didn't come across as actually caring about the boy. "Do you what you like to him," she spat. "I'll broadcast your message, but I must speak to the other one. The boy. Tell him to bring the one time pad."

The henchman and Emma exchanged a look, but the woman nodded her head. "Do it," she said.

When the henchman left, Emma and Lucile were alone. Her whole body still ached from the waterboarding, but she was fine to sit on the kitchen counter. The clock on the wall read fifteen minutes to seven.

"You are helping us," Emma said, her voice suddenly soft. She was like two different people. "I know you don't see things our way. But you are helping bring such wonderful changes to pass."

"Then why do you feel the need to justify yourself?"

Emma was about to answer, but her explanation was cut off by the arrival of Leon and the henchman. The two women exchanged a glance during which Lucile tried to read Emma, to see what was going behind her outwardly passive expression. But Emma merely excused herself to make the station ready for broadcast. As she left she instructed her henchmen to guard the door outside, leaving Leon and Lucile alone. Lucile breathed a sigh of relief: they still trusted Leon, after all.

"What did they do to you?"

"Never mind that," she cut him off. "Go and make sure we're alone."

She watched him as he checked the doors, looking both ways down the corridor outside. He returned a few seconds later. "Jono's a few feet away, but we'll not be overheard. Is this thing what you wanted?"

He held the one time pad in his outstretched hand.

"Burn it," she instructed him.

Leon looked up at her, confusion clouding his expression. In here, the lights were working properly and she could see him clearly for the first time. Only his eyes were still as dark as they were in that dorm room. Dark, and lined with lack of sleep and worry. He was sickly looking, too. It occurred to her then, just how vulnerable he was. But he had tried to help. He took a risk, even when the odds were stacked firmly against him. There was hope for him yet, and she had none for herself.

"There's something inside me that I can't get back," she explained. "It's got your name on it-"

"I don't follow," he said, cutting over her.

Tears were welling his big, dark brown eyes now and it made her want to kick him.

"You don't need to understand it yet," she answered. "Just remember what I'm telling you. It's inside me. When this is over, I need you to go to call Thames House and ask for a woman called Lady Lazarus to call you back. They won't put you through, so don't bother trying."

"That's MI-5," he murmured.

"Yes, but you know what your friends are really doing," she replied, swiftly. "You saw them torture me, didn't you? They did it to me; they'll do it to others and I bet the Minister is the next victim. If you really want to make this world a better place, then do as I ask. Call Lady Lazarus and tell her what I told you."

She could feel the fake tampon still sliding up her cervix and causing sharp, stinging pains as it moved. Even if Leon didn't get in touch, she had used a simple substitution code and that could be broken by any professional cryptologist within a few hours.

"You tried to save my life, Leon," she said, keeping her voice low and cupping his face to make sure he listened. "Now I'm trying to save yours."

"They won't kill you," he insisted.

"True," she replied, magnanimously. "And if they don't, then get in touch with Thames House and ask for Lucile Adams to call you back. For what it's worth, I really hope it will be you and I working together to stop these people."

"You?"

She nodded. "Well, I'm not a field agent, but I've met the man who'll probably be assigned to you. But for now, do everything Black Flag tell you. Carry on as you were."

She could tell that she'd utterly perplexed him, but she hoped for his sake he followed her advice. While he used the toaster to burn the one time pad, she found herself thinking over her "worst case scenario" mantra. If she survived, she would hunt these people down personally. But that was for then. Even when they came to take her to the broadcasting suite, she followed with heavy, aching limbs. All the time, repeating the words "worst case scenario".

Outside the station door, they grouped in a little knot. Lucile found herself surrounded by masked men in boiler suits, with just Emma and Leon showing their true faces. She and Leon looked at one another for a long time, before Emma ordered him to wait outside in the woods for her. The others left right away, but Leon lingered. _Just go!_ Lucile silently implored him. But his gaze never left hers, as he shook his head.

"No, I want to stay," he said.

They had no time to argue. Emma led the way into the tiny broadcasting suite, pulling out Lucile's chair so she could sit down and begin reading out the message at seven am precisely. They knew her call sign, so she couldn't even give Ben warning by reading out a fake one. That was the sort of thing a professional spy would notice immediately and disregard the message. But Emma was watching over her like a hawk as she read out a long sequence of numbers.

Lucile found herself wondering if she had caved in too easily. Even as she continued broadcasting, the wondered if she had been a coward. But she had seen no way out. Either they would kill her and slink back into the shadows, or she could lure one into their Asset trap while playing the game in order to crush them later. But it was too late now, the message was done. The station went off air and, already, Ben Kaplan was at the other end of the country decoding her sabotaged message. Lucile felt sick.

"It's done," she said. "I've done as you asked, and you promised to let me go."

It was a small hand gun concealed in Emma's boiler suit. Lucile had wondered if there was a weapon down there, but she didn't have long to ponder the matter before it was fired directly at her chest.

* * *

Lucas managed to pull over before his mobile rang off. He and Ros were on their way to Thames House but had time to spare, so it wasn't much of an inconvenience. Especially when the name Ben Kaplan was flashing up on the caller display.

"Ben, what is it?" he asked, by way of greeting.

"Hi, Lucas, I got this message from our woman in the bunker there," Ben explained. "But she wants me to divert our route to Durham. Any idea what's going on? We're due to set off in half an hour."

"Hang on a minute," said Lucas.

Moving the phone away from his face, he consulted with Ros. She was section head, and if any changes had been authorised, she would know about it.

"It really could be anything," said Ros. "Road works, traffic jams, road closures. Anything. Tell Ben I'm seconding Lucile's changes and to go with it. She knows what she's doing."

With no conceivable reason to argue, Lucas relayed Ros' instructions to Ben and ended the call.

An hour later, they were convened in the meeting room and pouring over floor plans for a Laboratory in Surrey. Ruth had already called the man who ran the place and cleared a staged break-in. Harry had highlighted weak points in the perimeter fence already and Lucas and Ros had agreed, rather enthusiastically, to be the ones doing the breaking in, with Jo Portman agreeing to make up numbers.

"We need wire cutters," Jo put in. "But how are we going to fake releasing the animals back into the wild?"

Lucas had already thought of that. "We don't," he said. "We get some from a pet store, take photos of them running around a field and then donate them to a petting zoo once they've served their purpose. Then we just edit the pictures and footage to make it look like its all part of the same film."

"We could just make a nice coat out of them once we're done."

"ROS!" the others chorused.

"Joking," Ros drawled back at them. "You have to admit though, the irony would be wonderful."

"I can do the editing," Malcom chipped in from the end of the meeting room table and bringing the banter to a standstill. "It's fairly easy to do and we already have advanced editing software."

"Hey, my niece keeps rabbits, I can get photos of them to use," said Jo, eager to get more involved. "That'll do it, won't it?"

"I don't see why not," Ros replied.

Before Lucas could join in again, his mobile rang once more. Harry turned to him in indignation.

"Will you turn that damn thing off before you come in here!"

"Sorry!"

Lucas was already on his way outside to take the call in private. It was Ben again, so Lucas merely closed the meeting room door before answering.

"How's it going?"

Ben didn't answer immediately, but Lucas could hear him breathing heavily, like he'd just run a marathon.

"Shit, Lucas, it was a fucking ambush," he finally wheezed between breaths.

"What?" Lucas' heart rate shot through the roof. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

Already, he was on his way back into the meeting room and calling out to Harry. Everyone inside fell silent, looking at Lucas expectantly. Harry got out of his chair, turning to face Lucas with an expression like thunder.

"I'm not hurt, but the Minister's been shot twice," said Ben. "Shit, Lucas, she's dead."

* * *

**Thanks again for reading and sorry we didn't see much of the team. From now on, it will be almost exclusively Grid based. Reviews would be great, if you have a minute, thank you.**


	7. Aftermath

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your input means a lot. Thank you.**

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Aftermath**

Harry replaced the telephone receiver and massaged a knot of tension that had tightened between his eyes. Somewhere off in the distance, behind the closed doors of the meeting room, he could still hear his team going over and over the course of events. It formed a dull, indecipherable buzz at the back of his head, speeding up the low headache that was just getting started in his temples. The Home Secretary, at least, had taken the news as well as could be expected: no better, nor worse. One of his cabinet colleagues had just been shot dead on a country road en-route to Durham. Without Ben Kaplan, one of only four surviving eye-witnesses, not even Section D had the full story yet, but Harry still had a vague outline of events in his head. Ben got a message from Lucile, asking him to reroute the Minister. Both Ros and Lucas had confirmed and seconded Lucile's reroute. The gunman was lying in wait, a roadblock having already been placed to stop them.

Once more, for the tenth time in the last hour, Harry picked up the phone again. Lucile's mobile number was on his computer screen, but by now he knew it off by heart. The call connected, the ringing began again and continued … and continued until voicemail kicked in. Lucile's breezy, pre-recorded voice cheerfully invited him to leave a message, before adding that she would call him back as soon as she could. He swore under his breath, not caring whether it was picked up or not, and jabbed the follow on button on the phone. He dialled the number of the bunkers internal phone and repeated the process again. Nothing.

All the while, the foetid stench of betrayal began to grind its way up Harry's olfactory nerves. Still, he reasoned to himself, at least this one wasn't a close, personal friend that he'd worked with for years. If Lucile had acted in cahoots with the assassins, she simply hadn't been on the Section D scene long enough to betray much.

Down the corridor, the noise coming from the meeting room briefly grew louder and clearer as the door opened. Harry got up and moved to the door of his office and raised a pained smile as Ruth rounded the corner. Sombre, but still lovely to him, she clutched a file in her hands as she closed the space between them.

"They're going nuts in there, Harry," she remarked, pointing her file towards the meeting room. "They need direction."

"What's Ros doing?" he retorted, standing aside so Ruth could enter the office. "She is Section Head, you know."

"She's pacing up and down and muttering furiously under her breath. She'll come round eventually, I'm sure."

Ruth flopped into the seat in front of the desk and opened the file she brought with her. It was Lucile's. Harry could see the black and white photograph of the Cryptologist paper clipped to the front. But once the file was open, Ruth didn't study it for long. She looked up at Harry as he reclaimed his own seat and pushed the file towards him.

"There's nothing in here to suggest she would turn on us, Harry-"

"Of course there bloody well isn't," he snapped back, unintentionally waspish. "If there was, she'd have been kicked out of the service long before she got here."

The expression on Ruth's face froze in the wake of his rebuke, making him doubly regretful. But he was in no mood to apologise now.

"Yes, alright Harry. Lashing out at me isn't going to help. Have you been able to reach Lucy? It's going straight to voice mail for me. What about the Home Sec?"

"Same for me, but the Home Sec is on his way to London now. Ros and I will be meeting him at two. In the meantime, I want you to organise a flight back to London for Ben. We need him to brief us in person. While all that's happening, I want Lucas and someone else to go to the bunker. Can you spare anyone?"

"Jo would be best, she's been there before," replied Ruth.

"Of course," said Harry, having clean forgotten who brought Lucile there in the first place. "Send Lucas and Jo out there together. Two should be enough. As far as we know, Lucile herself isn't dangerous."

His words were met with silence, during which Ruth fixed him with wide, clear blue eyes. Imploring; doubly nervous to speak since he'd already chewed her up and spat her out once. It was a look he had seen countless times before, but this was the first since she returned from Cyprus. It was only her fourth day back.

"Harry," she said, speaking softly. "I know Lucy. I know she wouldn't have deliberately done this-"

"Ruth," he cut her off again, just as gently as her. "You hadn't seen her in two years and before that, you only knew her through work. The truth is, neither of us know what she's capable of."

There was a moment's pause while Ruth scratched at her wrists distractedly. "So this is my fault is it?" she asked, barely concealing her own rising frustration.

Harry sighed heavily. "That's not quite what I said-"

"No, no, it's fine," Ruth retorted in a tone that suggested otherwise. "I'll tell Lucas and Jo to bring Lucile in and then just wait for you and Ros to wipe up the rest of the mess. I know my worth."

With that, she got up and swept out of the room without as much as a backward glance. The lingering scent of her perfume hung sweetly in the air of the small office, making Harry's head thump that little bit harder. He closed his eyes, cursing her timing and her fragility all over again.

* * *

It was like passing through a lucid nightmare, for Leon. Emma had had to slap him to get him back into the car and back to London. He trembled, sweated and finally vomited all over the backseat before they made it back home. Mercifully, the others had already gone their separate ways and he and Emma were alone again. As soon as they were back inside her apartment she slammed the door shut after him and bolted the doors.

It was cool inside, the curtains still drawn from before she left, two days previously. Emma's cat rubbed against her legs enthusiastically as she opened a tin of Whiskas in the kitchen and filled the kettle. Leon watched her from the doorway as she worked, wondering how she could remain so calm and composed. It was as if she broke into military installations and shot people before breakfast every morning. She made them tea, she slipped bread into the toaster and turned to him, holding the loaf up for him to see.

"Are you up to some?" she asked.

He couldn't say anything and just shook his head. No. His stomach still roiled, a sensation that grew worse as the smell of the toast filled the air. She'd made him a murderer; he'd never know a moment's peace ever again.

"Lee, are you sure?" she repeated. "You might feel better with something inside you."

She had held a woman captive, tortured and shot her dead. Now, she was faffing around in the kitchen and mothering him with toast, tea and sympathy. Just as easily as she slipped out of one persona and into another, she repeated the feat in the opposite direction. She had an alacrity of personality swapping that Leon was almost in awe of. She opened the kitchen blinds to let in the broad morning sunshine before buttering her toast and sitting at the table. It was only then that Emma noticed that Leon was still standing in the doorway. She paused, looking at him curiously with her head cocked to one side.

"Darling, come here," she said, as though beckoning a timid toddler inside.

Reluctantly, Leon entered the kitchen and slid onto the bench beside her. He couldn't bring himself to get too close; he couldn't even bring himself to say anything. All the time, Lucile's final words to him kept coming back: to go to Thames House, to tell them about what's inside her. But it all sounded so cryptic to him now, like she had told him something in a foreign language and he'd only half remembered how to form the words. Ask for Lady Lazarus, she had told him. Lady Lazarus … it rang a faint bell in his memory.

"Do you understand why I had to do it?"

Emma's voice cut over his thoughts, pulling him out of himself with a start.

"What?" he asked, dumbly.

Emma had pushed her plate away and turned on the spot to face him properly. She brought both her hands to his face, tilting his head up gently so they were looking into each others eyes.

"I said, do you understand why I had to do what I did back there?" she repeated, gently.

All of the unfeeling ruthlessness was gone from her now. She was soft and tender as she brushed a kiss against his cheek, but it still made him flinch as though she had slapped him again. But again, Lucile's last words drifted back to him: play along, show no fear, show no dissent and do as they say. He drew a deep breath as he looked back into her eyes. It was like she was studying him, trying to see beneath his skin and read his thoughts. Inside, he felt himself shrinking.

"I just wish you had told me what you were going to do first," he finally explained, not quite able to keep his tone even. "I just thought … I mean, all this stuff was kicking off all round me, and all I could do was watch."

Emma smiled, but the look in her eyes hardened as though she had found some chink in his armour. "For a moment there, Lee, I thought you were on her side; that she'd turned you."

Picking up on the undertones of what she had said, Leon's heart skipped painfully and his stomach lurched. She was suspecting him already.

"Of course not," he replied, injecting a note of disdain in his tone.

Emma seemed pleased, and let her hands fall from his face. "Anyway, this isn't all," she said, leaning over the table to switch on a radio. Already, it was tuned to BBC News. "I got a text from our friend in the North. Mission complete, and we should get confirmation soon."

"Confirmation of what?" Leon regretted asking almost as soon as the words left his lip.

Emma didn't reply immediately. She nibbled at a corner of her toast, thoughtful as she considered how to respond. "Let's just say we've sent a clear and unequivocal message to the government. All we're waiting for now is for it to be delivered."

* * *

All through the journey, Jo was agitated. Occasionally, Lucas stole a sidelong glance at her as they drove out of London, onto the A12 bound for Suffolk. One moment she was pulling at her seatbelt, the next fumbling through a pack of cigarettes only to throw them back into her bag with a dissatisfied grunt. Then, she would fall back on biting her nails and staring listlessly out of the passenger window. He had never worked with her before; couldn't tell if this skittishness was normal or not. He cast around for something to say, something to occupy her mind that was clearly working ten to the dozen. Small talk had never been his strong point, especially with someone who was as good as a stranger. He had wanted Ros to come with him; not this girl whose outward agitation seemed like a reflection of his own inner turmoil. He could feel it rubbing off on him.

"Nice day," he said, feeling lame.

If he was the blushing type, he's be outshining the traffic lights. Jo turned to him, scowling.

"Lovely," she concurred, nonetheless.

For a moment, it looked as though she was about to resume her fidgeting. But she gave up pulling the threads from the seatbelt and sighed heavily.

"We've got this wrong!" she declared, loud and firm as though she had been itching to say it from the off. "Lucile wouldn't have done this willingly. What if we're walking into a trap? I mean, we're about to head off deep into the woods and we don't know what, or who, could be waiting there."

The same thoughts had crossed Lucas' mind, but he'd pushed them down and blocked them out. They were both armed; they were both experienced, but it still wasn't enough to prevent them from being shit scared. In defiance of these rising tensions, Lucas pressed down on the accelerator as they neared the village to get this call over and done with.

"For what it's worth," he replied, "I feel the same. But the bunker's in the back arse of nowhere. Who could get to it? It's heavily protected. It's just Lucile in there and no one knows she's there except us and GCHQ."

"We'll know soon enough," replied Jo, now resigned. "Turn left here and head towards those woods. There's a public car park about two miles down that road. It's where I parked when I came here before. Then it's another mile or so into the woods themselves, but only on a side track. I remember it."

Lucas followed her directions, grateful for the fine and clear day. It was mid-afternoon by the time they reached the woods, so the roads were also mercifully empty. Only farm vehicles seemed to pass them, headed towards the village itself. A picturesque affair, the likes of which Lucas hadn't seen since he left his own rural town all those years ago. Even the smell of the place – pine and earth – reminded him of home. He breathed it in deep as they parked up and climbed out of the vehicle. He stood by the door, taking in the view of the hills further south, the town stretching out to the north and the large reservoir to the east.

"Lucas."

Jo's voice jolted him out of his reverie and he spun on the spot to face her. She was looking back at him, but gesturing towards the undergrowth. There were fresh tyre tracks coming from within nearby bushes that marked a natural boundary between the car park and the woods. Fresh broken branches marked the spot where overhanging branches had obstructed the vehicle's path. Slowly, he walked round the car to join Jo, all the while never taking his eyes off the recently disturbed undergrowth.

"That wasn't there before," Jo pointed out.

One of the benefits of a rural investigation was that it was easier to tell if the area had been disturbed. No one would notice tyre tracks in the middle of the city, but it boded ill for their op. Reaching through a still open window of their car, he retrieved his gun from the dashboard and double checked that it was loaded. Following his lead, Jo did the same before securing the car. Before they went inside, however, Lucas placed a hand on Jo's elbow, stopping her.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

There was only the briefest flickers of doubt crossing Jo's features. "We'll be fine."

Lucas appreciated the inclusion and managed a half-smile of gratitude as he let her lead the way. Jo remembered the directions, only this time she was making the journey with a loaded gun trained directly ahead of her. The pair of them, with adrenaline coursing and their nerves prickling, picked their way cautiously through the trees. Any sudden noises, and they jerked round, guns trained on the spot, only to be met with the sight of more trees leading off into darkness. After all these years away, Lucas had forgotten how dark the woods could be.

"It's okay," said Jo, returning to Lucas' side. "We're nearly there."

He didn't realise, until that moment, that he was the one now trembling, whereas Jo seemed calm and collected. The action clearly suited her more than the waiting. He tried to laugh, to lighten the mood. But the pair of them jumped out of their skin as a mobile phone rang shrilly nearby. The pair of them took a sharp intake of breath as they cast around for the source of the noise. Maddeningly, all Lucas could see was fallen leaves, undergrowth and patches of nettles and gorse. There wasn't a soul nearby, not that either of them could hear.

"Who's there?" Jo called out.

Lucas gulped, kept his gun trained on the middle distance directly in front of him. But the phone rang off and, once more, they were plunged back into silence.

"It was close," he said, still glancing restlessly in each and every direction. "I swear, it was right next to us."

"Lucas, I think I know-"

Jo didn't finish her sentence. Instead, she took out her own phone and dialled a number Lucas couldn't make out. Neither of them spoke as the call connected and the same mobile began ringing again, close by.

"Lucile?" asked Lucas.

Jo nodded.

"Let it ring, we need to find it."

They tracked the ring tone close to the perimeter fence, but didn't find it until Lucas trod on it. It had been covered by falling leaves and kicked into a patch of nettles. Jo used the toe of her boot to nudge the device clear of the nettles and Lucas, crouched down, tentatively picked it up and wiped the face of it down the leg of his jeans.

"Thirty-eight missed calls, battery almost dead," he remarked. "Most from the Grid, some from Ruth's mobile. If she was fleeing the bunker, she wouldn't have left this lying around."

When Lucas looked up to get Jo's opinion, he saw her looking off towards the perimeter fence. Her eyes were narrowed as she squinted through the gloom. He followed the line of her gaze, trying to make out what had caught her attention.

"The hatch is still open, Lucas."

It was difficult to see, at first. Among the fallen leaves and churned earth, the perfect circle of darkness was deceptively concealed. After a brief glance at one another, they slowly walked towards it. Lucas pocketed Lucile's phone for safe keeping as they both knelt at the rim of the hatch and leaned over the opening, looking down into the darkness. Not a sound could be heard from within but faint running water; only the smell of burning material reached Lucas, but if there had been a fire it had burned out already. There was no smoke. Lucas looked up at Jo, seeing his own mounting fear reflected in her eyes.

"I'll go first," he said. "You stay close behind me."

She nodded, gulped and managed a half-smile by way of encouragement.

* * *

Ros had already agreed to cut the man some slack. One of his colleagues had just been murdered in cold blood, after all. But there was only so far her patience would stretch as she watched Nicholas Blake's face turn from pink, to red and then purple as he ranted at Harry. They were sat in Blake's own private offices, Parliament already in summer recess but about to undergo an emergency recall. The Home Secretary seemed hell bent on blaming Harry, personally, for the murder of Sinead Kelly.

"How could you let this happen?" he had stormed at the Section Chief. "We placed the security arrangements in your hands – your hands Harry – on the basis of your reputation as one of the best in the service…"

Harry had made one or two attempts at interjecting into this conversation, only to be steamrollered by the fury of Blake. Ros, however, was sat back in her chair, legs cross and fingers steepled as she watched the scene unfold with a veneer of cool indifference. She watched the largely one-sided exchange between the two men with thinning patience.

"Well, maybe if we all bawl loudly enough at one another the truth will give itself up," Ros finally cut in. When both men turned to look at her, she continued: "Failing that, why don't you let Harry and I actually brief you and then we can get on with our job of finding out who was responsible for this and neutralising them before anyone else can shot."

It was the in-road that Harry needed and Blake was finally cooperating. "Two of my most trusted agents have been dispatched to Suffolk with the sole intention of finding out what went wrong, how it went wrong and what exactly happened. You have to understand, the assassination only happened a few hours ago and we won't have all the answers right away."

For a moment, the room was silent. Ros could hear Blake getting his breath back after ranting and pacing the length of the office. She watched him as he settled back down again, but he seemed lost to them, as though he was preoccupied with something else all of a sudden. Sat back at his desk, Blake propped his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands. Once more, Ros felt a flicker of sympathy for the man.

"Home Secretary," she said, placatory now. "We appreciate that you've lost a colleague and we, of all people, know how that feels-"

"Of course you do," Blake replied, suddenly self-conscious. He sat up straight again. "I'm not going off at you … it's just …" his words faltered as he seemed to struggle to articulate exactly what was happening. "It's just such a bloody mess. Have the press gotten hold of this yet?"

"No," Harry assured him.

"Good. Miss Kelly's family need to be informed and her…" once more, Blake trailed off. "Her partner, you know, David Shelley. He's on his way over. I have to break the news to him, that's all. He'll want answers, Harry."

"I understand that, I really do. But right now, mere hours after the event, it's not possible and I will not give out false information just to make people feel better. We will keep you permanently briefed on the situation as it develops."

Once more, the meeting stalled. Blake and Harry looked at one another across the Home Secretary's desk, each one equally weary and seemingly defeated.

"Tell me honestly, Harry, who do you think it is? Who do you think has done this?"

Ros was also curious about that. They had discussed it in the car on their way over. It had been years since the Provisional IRA had carried out the assassination of a British MP and there were few other groups with the capability and know how. Compounding the confusion was the fact that Sinead Kelly was so new to the job. She hadn't yet made any disastrous decisions that could inspire such murderous urges. The whole thing, in Ros' mind, was so random and Harry had concurred with her. She watched her boss at that moment, as he tried to exercise some tact and sensitivity.

"We just don't know," he replied. "But there are a number of options: we need to look into Al-Qaeda, Irish Republican dissidents and possibly even Black Flag seeing as they've been causing trouble lately."

"Home Secretary," Ros discreetly entered the discussion as soon as Harry finished talking. "Is there anyone else at all that you know of who could have had reason to kill the Minister? Because the fact remains is, she was an obscure back bencher that no one had ever heard of until a month ago."

Nicholas Blake drew a deep, steadying breath as he mulled it over. "I only knew her vaguely. Why don't you both wait until Shelley gets here; he'd been … having relations … with Miss Kelly for quite some time. He would know more than I."

"Well, I'm waiting for a call back about the situation-"

"Oh, that's fine," Blake waved Ros' concerns away. "Leave your phone on – we understand the situation."

* * *

"Stay close to me." Lucas whispered over his shoulder to Jo as they made their way through the bunker. It was cold, but the smell of smoke was still heavy on the air and the sound of running water grew louder. Inside one dormitory the sole lighting came from a blue emergency light, but they could see that it was empty. Moving on, they checked each room in turn, moving between them with their backs pressed to the walls, making a note of the state each room was in.

"The place has been ransacked, but no sign of forced entry anywhere," Jo remarked, sotto voce.

Inside the kitchen, Lucas found a wet towel and more signs of ransacking. The smoke they detected came from inside the ladies toilets, where it looked as though clothing and papers had been burned and immediately dowsed. A makeshift pipe was funnelling water straight from the tap, flooding the toilets themselves. It washed over their shoes as they stepped inside.

"There's definitely no one here," Lucas observed. "Can you film this on your phone for the time being?"

"Sure."

Careful not to touch anything, Lucas continued to pick his way through the bunker. Water from the ladies toilet was now washing down the corridor, making the floor treacherously slippery. Erring on the side of caution, he kept his back to the walls as he moved towards the station door, gun at the ready. The door was still open, but he didn't see Lucile's body until he had stepped inside. She was still in her chair, a bullet straight through her heart. The wall behind her pockmarked where it had passed straight through her and ricocheted off somewhere else. A shell casing was beside his foot.

"Shit," he murmured.

The water leaking from the bathroom mingled with the blood that had spilled from Lucile's wounds, staining it pink, making it look even worse than it already was. Her skin was white and waxen, her eyes half shut; she wouldn't even have seen the shot coming. Or so Lucas hoped as he swallowed the wave of nausea that washed over him. He backed out of the room and came to rest against the wall outside. He doubled over, trying not to throw up and took several deep breaths before calling Jo over. She didn't need to see the body for herself to know what had happened. He reached for his phone, ready to brief Ros and Harry on the latest development.

* * *

David Shelley's hands trembled as he pulled his phone from the pocket of his jacket. None of what the Home Secretary had actually sunk in, but he knew the meaning of it. Sinead was dead. Someone had killed her. He knew what it meant, but the enormity of it made him go numb. He was away of the Home Secretary still in the room, those people from MI-5 waiting outside so he could be told of his fiancé's death in private, at least. Finally, he managed to get his phone and check the caller: Leon.

"Not now," he murmured, thumbing the 'ignore' button.

When he looked up again, Blake appeared worried. "The Press?"

David managed to shake his head. "My son, Leon."

Leon, who barely even knew of Sinead's existence. Camping with friends, or so he had been told. The boy didn't need to be dragged into this just yet. Before he could dwell too long on what to tell Leon, a glass of whiskey was pushed into his hands by the Home Sec. For a long moment, he merely looked at it, as though wondering what it was for. Without wasting too much time, however, he knocked it back in one, hoping it would be enough to get him through this briefing without breaking down.

"You ready?" Blake asked.

"No," he replied, honestly. "But I'll have to be."

While Blake went to find the spooks, David turned to stand before the window. He looked out, but saw little of what was happening. He was about to be subjected to the minutiae of Sinead's death, the technical details and the intimate details of her final moments. He would have to take that emotional step back, too, mere moments after being told the news. He marvelled at people who could actually do this; be so cold-bloodedly clinical. He remembered when his wife died; how he could barely look his own son in the eye for months afterwards. That amethyst eyed child, so much like his mother it was like seeing a ghost as he grew older.

Now, here he was again. The grief, following him like a stray dog. Feed it once, it just keeps coming back for more. He was dimly aware of a conversation happening, still outside the door. Voices were being deliberately hushed so he wouldn't hear. Distracted from his own raw pain, he turned to see what was going on. Harry Pearce and his silent side-kick were visibly disconcerted. He'd never seen Harry Pearce so visibly distressed before. Sensing that the news just got worse, David moved towards the door, listening in to what was being said.

"Shot once, through the heart," the normally silent woman was saying. "Dead instantly; no idea how they got in there. That bunker isn't exactly on the A-Z. Whoever it was, they knew what they were doing."

Harry joined in, with some equally wry observation that David didn't quite catch as he rushed to the nearest vase and choked the whiskey shot back up again.

* * *

**Thanks again for reading; reviews would be most welcome. Thank you.**


	8. Pandora's Box

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you! **

* * *

**Chapter Eight: Pandora's Box**

They stole a moment alone together on the back stairs of Thames House. It was a fire exit, strictly speaking, so no one else ever came that way. Empty and draughty, their voices echoed softly when they spoke. But luckily, Harry and Ruth weren't doing much talking. They stood close to each other on the second floor landing, head to head as he embraced her well away from prying eyes. Their earlier squabble forgotten and buried under the latest loss to their team. Close by was the wall of death; on which names were accumulating like notches on Casanova's bedpost. Well, now they had another to add to sorry party: Lucile Adams, lasting a record low of three meagre days. Even by Section D standards, it would take some beating and Harry found himself wryly wondering if there was some posthumous honour he could bestow on her for that.

Harry gently dabbed a stray tear that had leaked from Ruth's eye with the pad of his thumb. A gesture to which Ruth responded with a shudder as she gave herself a shakedown. She turned to her right, looking through the glass doors as though she was expecting someone. But Harry knew she was only checking to see if the coast was clear before kissing him again. After the day they'd had, however, he couldn't have cared less who saw them. Not so long ago – but longer than he cared to admit – he would have worked through all this. He would have gone down the nearest boozer, found something in a skirt and with a pulse to exchange bodily fluids with before regaining consciousness the following morning as though nothing had happened.

But those were simpler days and he knew better now: that he never did forget the dead; he had merely diverted them. They seemed to have accumulated in that closed off no-man's land in his head and lain in wait, ambushing him as soon as the first chink in his armour appeared. A Pandora's Box of ghosts springing open to take him by surprise. He wondered, often, who was the first to open that chink? Was it Ruth? He couldn't honestly say whether it was her, or whether the arrival of her star in his orbit simply coincided with a natural weakening of the will. Now, he saw it hardly mattered. She had seen that weakness in him so he had nothing to hide any more. Not from Ruth.

He remembered the cotton handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket and plucked it out. Ruth took it with a pale smile of gratitude. She dabbed at her eyes, careful not to smudge her mascara, blissfully unaware that she already the tell-tale charcoal tramlines running down both sides of her face. When she handed it back, he went to clean it up himself. Realising what was going on, Ruth managed a laugh.

"I'm sorry, I must look a right state," she said, hoarsely.

"Don't be sorry," he replied.

Attempting once more to clean herself up, she descended the stairs to study her reflection in the window that overlooked the rear of the building. It was still bright outside, almost indecently sunny outside given the sombre mood inside. Slowly, Harry followed her and sat down on the lowest step. After a few minutes, Ruth joined him with her face pink and scrubbed and with one decimated handkerchief clutched in her hands.

"No one knew about that bunker, Harry," said Ruth, newly composed.

That information wasn't knew; Ros had said exactly the same thing to him not an hour before, as she was leaving to join Lucas in Suffolk. Jo was on her way back to London with Lucile's body. Now, he would reply to Ruth with what he had initially held back from Ros. It wasn't something he could say with the Secretary of State for Defence and the Home Secretary hanging around and fishing for classified information. But with Ruth off the Grid, he could finally give voice to the thoughts and embryonic theories in his head.

"That's not strictly true," he said, making room for Ruth on the step. "The Home Secretary knew about it. Our team knew about it. The Secretary of State for Defence knew about it."

"Harry, none of our lot would have betrayed-"

"I know! I know and I'm not accusing anyone," Harry stated, before she could accuse him of paranoia again. "But listen, David Shelley was her lover. Most murder victims are known to their killers but obviously, a man in Shelley's position wouldn't do the deed himself. He could easily hire someone."

Ruth sniffed loudly while thinking it over. "That's a lot of trouble to go to for bumping off an inconvenient lover, Harry. But it's definitely a possibility."

It was the first thing that had sprung to mind when he heard of the Minister's death and Lucile's. The Home Secretary would have no feasible reason to want Sinead Kelly out of the way and they had no personal connection that could provide any other motive. However, Ruth was running with his speculation.

"Lucile would have been the perfect cover, but she would have to have been neutralised because she knew too much," she added. Although initially inflated by the rush of the theory, she soon sagged again as the drawbacks presented themselves. "But it still seems like a lot of trouble to go to. He already knew her route, so why divert her and have her killed there? He could have hired a hit man and stationed him anywhere along the pre-arranged route."

Harry shrugged. "To make it look like an assassination," he suggested. "Because if that was what he wanted people to think, he would have had to see things from the point of view of someone who didn't know the route. Hence the bunker break in, take Lucile hostage and get her to change the route and possibly even set her up to take the fall for it. Which he very nearly succeeded in doing."

Ruth sighed and ran her hand through her hair, dragging it out of her bloodshot eyes as she concentrated. Her brow creased as she picked the theory apart, testing it for weaknesses. Harry was reminded, once more, of how seemed to have tested him for weaknesses, once. She was very good at finding them.

"If he needed Lucile to take the rap he would not have killed her," she stated. "All he's done is alert us to the fact that was held hostage. Lucas did say there was bruises on her wrists from being bound, right?"

"Yes," Harry replied. "I don't know Ruth. This really is the first possibility that sprang to mind and I'm probably clutching at straws. But given the fact that no one at all outside that room on Sunday knew what we were doing, our scope is limited."

Harry ran through the guest list once more. The Home Secretary, Nicholas Blake, was there. His cabinet colleague, David Shelley. Lucile was there. He himself was there, alongside Ruth. There were one or two others, but they left before the security meeting began.

"There was quite a young boy there," he recalled. "Who was he?"

"That was Shelley's son, Leon. He came down for his tea and was sent straight back out of the room again. He wouldn't have known anything," Ruth explained. Immediately, she fell silent and frowned into the middle distance. "But…" she added.

"But?" Harry prompted her.

Ruth turned to look back at him. "Lucy and the boy were talking. I think Lucy had spilled a drink on him; something like that. They were just chatting. Then I left you and Blake to conspire amongst yourselves and decided to join Lucy. She was all alone apart from a teenage boy and I was worried in case he was trying it on with her."

"And was he?"

Ruth shook her head. "No, not at all. Lucy didn't mind at all. But she wouldn't have told him anything. She couldn't have; she didn't know anything herself at that stage."

Harry sighed heavily. "Speak to the boy anyway. You never know. What's his name again? Leon, isn't it?"

"Yes, but there's others we need to prioritise," Ruth reminded him. "Maybe, just on the off chance, look into Blake as well. You just never know what some people are up to."

Harry considered Blake about as likely a suspect as a teenage boy, but he knew he could leave no stone unturned. Any Politician could be working for any 'higher power'.

When he went to reply to her, he found the words stuck in his throat. But his eyes locked into hers and they looked at each other for a moment. She was only back from Cyprus a month. But it was meant to be her in that bunker. It was meant to be Ruth sending those security messages and it could have been her corpse Jo was currently escorting back to London at that moment. He could have been where Pete Adams is now: drowning in tea and sympathy. A lump formed in Harry's throat. Ten years ago – before the smoking ban in the work place – he could have blamed his watering eyes on that, but there was no such convenient excuse to hand. His hand found hers and he gave a squeeze for reassurance.

"Harry," she said, softly. Her expression relaxed as her eyes continued to hold his own gaze. She tilted her head to one side, quizzically. "Harry, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," he lied.

Ruth didn't need to tell him that hadn't washed with her; her expression said it all. With another small sigh, he relented. She always had a way of worming the truth out of him.

"I was just thinking," he finally admitted. "It was meant to be you in there. Only I had refused to let you go."

To his surprise, Ruth raised a smile. "You're not regretting that, are you?"

Stunned, he realised she was joking. Still, he gave an exasperated gasp. "Of course not!"

In a rush of relief, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in close. A gesture she responded to eagerly, where once she may have pushed him away. Thank the god of spies for fire escapes.

"I was furious with you too," Ruth confessed, her voice muffled as she spoke into his shoulder.

Even now, Harry felt some perverse joy in being proven right against her. He grinned, grateful that she could not see the look of triumph that made his green eyes glitter in the way that they now did.

"I am never letting you out of my sight again," he said, briefly squeezing her.

"Harry, we've been through this," Ruth retorted, finally reverting to form and pushing him away. "Cotton wool brings me out in hives, so stop wrapping me in it!"

He groaned and leaned back against the stair railings, eye rolling as he went. "Jesus, woman!"

Once he had composed himself again, Harry straightened himself out and looked back at her. Ruth was smiling again, but it was a weak affair. He held out his hand to help her back to her own feet and together, they headed back on to the Grid. It was time to start the investigation proper.

* * *

Ros didn't slow down until she reached Eastleigh. The rural charm passed her windows in a green and brown blaze or spattered across the windscreen as she overtook unfortunate airborne insects. Muttering stifled curses she squirted the windscreen to keep her view of the village clear. Only once she crossed a cattle grid and descended a steep hill into a high street did she bring the vehicle down to the national speed limit. She had already passed the woods where Police vehicles and an ambulance were still stationed, the area cordoned off to the public. But Lucas was no longer there, so she kept on going.

She slowed to a crawl as she passed through the main street, ignoring the impatient honking of the motorist behind her. Only as he finally got the chance to pass her did she flick him off as he went. But he was soon forgotten as she resumed her search for Lucas. No matter how often she told herself he was a big boy and perfectly capable of looking after himself, she would still have those niggling doubts about his true mental state. Never would she allow that to show in front of man himself, but it was always there at the back of her mind nonetheless and after the day he had had, she wouldn't blame him for losing it.

Luckily, the village only seemed to have one pub. Outside, leaning against the low perimeter wall, was Lucas. He studying the screen of his phone intently, jabbing at the buttons with the pad of his thumb. Despite herself, a small surge of relief washed over her as she drew level with the pavement and parked up. Before approaching him, she tried to get a look at his face before he realised she was there and started schooling himself. He looked pale and tired, but then, he always did. He was still hammering out the same text message by the time she caught up with him properly, but he stopped mid-flow and slid the device back into his pocket anyway.

"Sorry, did I disturb you?" she asked.

"Not really," he replied, following her around the back of the pub. "I didn't want to be lurking on a street corner like a flasher so tried to look as if I'd stopped to actually do something."

Ros managed a dry laugh as she brought him to a halt behind the pub. She wasn't sure whether they were actually allowed round there, but nor did she sincerely care. She needed to speak with Lucas privately before they started asking questions of the locals. Bringing her hands to his face, she looked directly at him. Although he didn't say anything, she could tell he was questioning her sanity.

"Are you okay?" she asked, sotto voce. "I mean really okay."

He didn't reply immediately. Briefly, there was just a small wavering uncertainty visible in his expression. A fleeting thing that only Ros would have picked up on.

"Yeah, I'm good," he finally said. "I mean, we were sort of prepared for the worst before we even got in there."

He meant the bunker in which he and Jo had found the body.

"Sort of?" she repeated, eyebrow raised. "If you want to sit this out-"

"No, I don't," he cut in, emphatically. When she made no reply, he continued: "Ros, please, let's see what we can find out here."

She wanted to say more, but Lucas was already turning away and walking back towards the pavement. Ros watched him pull up the collar of his jacket, despite the afternoon heat, with her eyes narrowed. She had to keep reminding herself that he was tougher than he looked. Before Lucas could walk straight past the pub, she caught him by the arm and directed him inside.

"As good a place as any to start," she said, holding the door open for him.

They were greeted by an enormous Irish wolfhound who sauntered over to give their shoes a curious sniff. At a nearby table, four local pensioners lifted their gaze to look at them both, fixing them with quizzical looks. Both Lucas and Ros wilted under the scrutiny, but went straight to the bar where the bar maid was chatting to another elderly customer. Ros only picked up snippets of their hushed conversation, but it was definitely about the body found in the woods. A radio report playing the background reported the assassination of Sinead Kelly – another case she and Lucas would have to look into, soon enough.

The barmaid and the punter instantly fell silent as Ros and Lucas approached.

"What can I get you?" the barmaid asked, doing her best not to sound annoyed at the interruption of her gossip session.

"Er, nothing actually," replied Ros. "I'm Detective Constable Sandra Wilkes and this my colleague, Mark Jones. I wondered if we could ask a few questions."

Beside her, Lucas flinched and turned from the bar to scratch the dog's ears. Instead, it was left to Ros to show her fake ID badge and produce a photo of Lucile from her jacket pocket.

"Have you seen this woman?" asked Ros, showing the barmaid the picture.

The other woman took it, a light of recognition sparking immediately in her eyes.

"'Ere, look Reg," she said, addressing the customer she was speaking to a moment ago. "It's her isn't it? The one doing the nature survey who was here last night."

Ros watched Reg's reaction, which was identical to the barmaid's. Instant recognition. Without adding to what the barmaid had said, he turned to Ros.

"That was never her found in the woods this morning, was it?"

Ros wanted to kick the loose tongued emergency services personnel who had gabbed about that morning's events. For now, she had to paint on a smile as though the flying rumours simply didn't affect her. "I can't actually confirm that, but that's what we think."

They both looked visibly shaken by the news; wide eyed and temporarily struck dumb as they gathered their thoughts. It was the barmaid, who introduced herself as the landlady to Ros, who spoke first. "We're a small town here, so we remember new faces right enough," she explained. "She was here just last night and asking about what wildlife we get in our gardens. Gave me a card with a number on it."

"Was she with anyone or alone?" asked Lucas, finally joining the conversation. Affronted by the sudden withdrawal of attention, the hound began whining up at him.

"Oh yes, alone. She sat out in the beer garden most of the time she was here. From about six until seven or seven thirty-ish, by my reckoning," the landlady answered. "She was talking on her mobile when I brought her dinner out to her, though." As an after-thought, she added: "she had the salmon salad and two G and T's. That, I do remember."

"But she wasn't drunk?" asked Ros.

"No, not all."

"You didn't happen to notice anyone following her out or any other strangers in the vicinity?" Lucas asked.

Reg and the Landlady glanced at one another for a moment. "I didn't see anyone, did you Reg?"

"No one, sorry. Like Linda here says, we remember new faces round here and I didn't see a thing," the punter replied. "But I wasn't up round the woods last night. I went straight home from here and that's in the opposite direction."

"This 'ere's the only pub in this town and I've been running it for nigh on twenty years now. I know just about everyone here at least by name and face," the Landlady confirmed, adding with a note of disdain: "Except the teetotallers."

"What about any strange vehicles, then?" Ros asked.

"Ah, now that's different," Linda the Landlady said. "We get god knows how many motors passing through at all hours. Commuters and the like, passing to and from London. We wouldn't have noticed."

Reg confirmed that, to Ros' dismay. After borrowing a pen from behind the bar, she wrote down the telephone number for the Thames House incident desk and handed it to the Landlady, asking the punter to copy it down as well. "Give us a call if anything comes back to you," she said, as they left.

Outside, they sat at one of the benches in the beer garden, under a parasol. It was another hot day and they were grateful for the shade, seeing as Lucas had already caught the sun on the bridge of his nose. She looked at him in silence for a long moment, trying to second guess what was going through his mind. He was distant, distracted. He had barely slept and found the body of his newest colleague dead in an underground bunker. She recognised the look of someone who had had enough for one day when she saw it, and she realised Jo was probably in the same boat.

"Have you heard from the Police yet?" asked Ros.

"Forensics are in the bunker now," he said, quietly. "They let us remove the body for a post mortem, though. Jo went with her to the mortuary. You know, our friendly mortuary."

Ros nodded. The people examining the body would know who Lucile really was and who she was working for at the time of her death.

"There was water all over the place," said Lucas. "I was ankle deep in it. It washed over the body. It had destroyed all the ciphers she was using. I think it might have washed away a lot of DNA evidence too."

"No," Ros shook her head. "No, it's harder to get rid of than that. Leave it to the experts, Lucas. Those guys could extract shit from a rocking horse if they had to."

To her relief, Lucas managed one of his half-hearted, lopsided smiles. It confirmed her suspicion that he had been beating himself up about disturbing the crime scene and potentially harming the case. However, the smile was gone as soon as it had arrived.

"We should have guessed that the message Lucile sent was compromised," he said, referring to the phone call they got from Ben before the Minister's assassination. "We could have prevented both deaths-"

"Lucas, you're wrong," she firmly cut over him. "Lucile was in a no win situation. If she didn't send the message they would have killed her and just ambushed the Minister later on. And with the correct call signs used, we weren't to know."

"I'm not blaming you-"

"Don't blame either of us," she cut him off again, brooking no nonsense.

Ros expression set in grim determination, shutting off any further self-recrimination from Lucas. But he still looked unhappy. He wouldn't hold her gaze, glancing off to the left instead.

"Look, we got some decent information from those people in the pub; first time lucky," she pointed out. "Now we can start tracking Lucile's last known movements. We've done bloody well today."

Before Lucas could pick holes in their progress, she took out her phone and called Malcolm to tell him to start scouring CCTV from seven pm onwards. Although there was no CCTV on the road leading directly into the woods, there were bound to be clues on the town centre footage. Once that call had been made, she called the local police who were dealing with the murder enquiry proper. They could handle any further reports of sightings and appeals for information themselves, now that they were equipped with Lucile's cover story.

"We need to get back to the Grid," she told Lucas, after she'd dealt with the police. "But after that, I'm taking you straight home. No arguments."

Sensibly, he offered no resistance.

* * *

Leon returned to an empty house. A half-drunk cup of coffee was sitting on the draining board in the kitchen, a newspaper open at the centre fold on the breakfast table and an empty saucepan left on the hob. After finding his father's study equally devoid of life, he went through to the main bathroom and ran a shower; turning the temperature up as high as he could stand it. Once stripped and under the water, he scrubbed every inch of himself until his skin was raw. He took a pumice stone to his fingertips, scouring under his nails until they bled. He worked fast and frantically, washing his hair and scratching his scalp repeatedly in the process. Suddenly he fell still, watching the blood-tinged soap suds washing down the plughole, breathless and despondent. Guilt wasn't the same as dirt, you couldn't just scrub it away and hope for the best. Nevertheless, the rinse and repeat cycle went on once more before he shut off the water and towelled himself dry again.

Back in his own room, he shut the curtains to block out the afternoon sun and lay on his bed in silence. He thought to turn the radio on, but every news broadcast was covering the assassination of the Minister. Only Emma was able to carry on as normal: she had dropped him off at the end of his street, on her way to meet someone at Liverpool Street Station. It was the assassin, he was sure of that.

Slowly, he sat up on the bed and drew his knees up under his chin. He could run for it. He could get on the Eurostar and be in France by sundown. There was a suitcase shoved under the bed he was sat on and he wouldn't need much. But those thoughts were shut off by the sound of a key turning in the lock of the front door. Moments later, his father's footsteps echoed from the tiled hallway. Without thinking, Leon rushed out of his room and down the stairs to meet him.

"Dad!"

Shelley senior was still divesting himself of his coat in the hallway when Leon reached him. He looked up at his son through heavily lidded eyes, red and puffy. For a moment, it was though the father didn't recognise the son, and it brought Leon to a halt half way down the stairs.

"You're back early," David remarked, his voice hoarse. He looked his son up and down, his gaze finally resting on his son's hands. "And you're hurt."

Too late, Leon folded his injured right hand under his left arm. "It's nothing," he quickly brushed it off.

"Didn't look like nothing-"

"I came home when I heard about the assassination," he cut in, descending the rest of the stairs. "I'm … I'm sorry…"

It sounded lame because it was lame. His father's expression clouded in response. "You know?"

Now Leon was thrown, too. "It was on the news."

"No, I mean you knew about Sinead and I?"

Leon couldn't think why they were having this conversation. The things he wanted to say the sounds coming out of him now were like two separate languages. Thoughts that had so recently considered running for his life now centred on spilling everything. But the words wouldn't come.

"Everybody knew," he finally replied.

His father reached out to him, looking at the cuts under his nails briefly before pulling him into a hug. Leon didn't resist. On the contrary, he encircled his arms father's neck and broke down in tears, sobbing heavily into his shoulder. A damn had broken, and he couldn't stop.

* * *

Harry, Ros, Malcolm and Ruth all gathered around the techie's monitor. Lucas and Jo had been sent home to recover from the trauma of finding Lucile's body, while the others made it their task to track her last movements on the night of her death. It stunned Ruth to think it was barely twenty four hours ago.

Thanks to the information supplied to Ros by the pub landlady, they found Lucile easy enough. She was picked up by the pub's cameras, a small and grainy figure, half in shadow, moving mutely towards her own death. She was followed outside the pub by a large, hulking shadow that soon materialised as nothing more than the pub's resident wolfhound. Lucile paused to give his head a good rub, before continuing on her way and the dog skulked back towards his home.

"Make sure the police know about that," said Ros. "The minute they trace a stray dog hair on the body and match it back to the dog, the Landlady and every patron in there will be banged up for life while the real killers might as well shout it from the rooftops."

Ruth's confidence in the local Bobbies roughly matched Ros', and she didn't take it as lightly as it was meant. It wasn't that they were inept, they were just unused to dealing with cases of this magnitude. It'd be the Guildford Four and Birmingham Six all over again. Meanwhile, Lucile on the screen carried on with her final journey. They watched her silent figure pause by windows, or stop to take in the view and check her phone. Other times, Ruth watched her as she glanced over her shoulder as though distracted by something. Had she heard something? Had she seen something from the corner of her eye? The cameras refused to divulge all the answers they sought and, soon, they lost her at the edge of the woods. Lucile stopped at a road crossing, waiting for the little green man to flash up on the crossing opposite, looked left and right and walked off camera and out of frame. A trail of questions unanswered followed in her wake.

For a long time, no one said anything. All eyes remained fixed on the now blank screen, a perfect reflection of their minds. Only Harry's phone ringing broke the silence, and the muffled sound of his voice as he took the call and quickly vanished off the Grid. No one asked where he was going.

"There are no CCTV cameras directed into the woods," Malcolm said. "That was as close as we can get. We're relying on dog walkers or campers who might have heard something."

Ros didn't look hopeful. "There's a car park just outside the woods; Lucas showed it to me. Isn't there anything covering it?"

Malcolm looked apologetic on behalf of Suffolk County Council. "It's not an official car park, though. It's just a natural roadside clearing that people illegally use as a car park."

Ruth sighed and leaned over to eject the disc with the CCTV footage on it. She would scour it again later, after she'd had a chance to get some sleep. But before that, Harry returned to the Grid with a clear plastic bag in his hands. He came straight over to them, where they had gathered in the meeting room, and laid it out on the table.

"This was found inside Lucile's body," he said, gesturing to the back. "Concealed in a tampon applicator, apparently. Although not personal acquainted with such methods, I can just about imagine how it works."

Curious, the others leaned over the bag, studying the contents which appeared to be just one sheet of paper with a long sequence of numbers. Ruth smiled as a bright ray of sunshine broke over their darkest day yet.

"It's a cipher," she said, pulling it close to her.

"Exactly," Harry replied, triumphantly.

"Clever girl," Ros enthused, peering over Ruth's shoulder. "Hopefully, it's a simple substitution code and we can crack it in a few hours. It must be the names of her attackers. It must be."

Ruth couldn't think of any other reason for the cipher being kept up there. Although cautious by nature, that didn't extend to secreting messages up delicate parts of their own bodies. But Ruth also knew one mind alone couldn't work on a professionally concocted cipher. She reached for a large marker pen from inside her bag and wrote the numbers down on a piece of card, exactly as they appeared only larger and bolder.

"I'm photocopying this for all of us to take home," she explained. "Including ones for Jo and Lucas."

"I'll drop theirs off on my way home," Ros volunteered.

"Good idea Ruth," Harry cut in. "Get me one, as well. And email it over to the cryptologists over at GCHQ, they do this sort of thing to pass boring train journeys. But take nothing for granted; I want us all to study the code and try to crack it. When we regroup tomorrow, we'll go over it together. That'll be all, thank you."

* * *

**Thanks again for reading; reviews would be welcome.**


	9. A Necessary Evil

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you!**

**A/N: I've referred to the "Somerton Man" to highlight difficulties in cracking codes left by the dead. Just so you all know: he's not my invention, he was a real person and his murder/death is still very much unresolved. **

**Also, one line of text is a quote from Fitzgerald's translation of "Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam". Another quote comes from "Lady Lazarus" by Sylvia Plath (taken from the "Ariel" collection).**

* * *

**Chapter Nine: A Necessary Evil**

The numbers were swimming before Ruth's eyes. She blinked repeatedly, attempting to refocus on the figures before picking up the pen at her side. An abandoned cup of black coffee was being used as a paperweight and her new cat – a rescue moggy from the nearby shelter – fell back on old habits as he successfully scavenged the remnants of ham from a half-eaten sandwich by her feet. Lost in cracking Lucile's last code, Ruth had forgotten to feed him. After his meagre feed, he took to pawing at the balled up paper that Ruth had tried to toss into a nearby bin and missed. Distracted, she turned to watch the cat and rubbed her tired eyes once more.

Her first methods for cracking the codes had been the most obvious. Not because she truly believed Lucile would be naïve enough to actually use them, but merely to rule them out. So her first few hours of failure came as no surprise. But as the hour grew later, Ruth's methods grew exponentially more intricate and complex and still no joy. With twenty numbers; zeroes probably acting as word dividers and including repetitions, Ruth thought she may as well start pulling numbers and letters from thin air. The only clue she had was the same number/letter appearing twice in a row, the eighth and ninth places, of the second word. She kept going back to them, thinking of double letters that commonly cropped up in the English language and started jotting them down in the margin: S, O, E, T, L…. the list went on. It narrowed the possibilities, but nowhere near enough.

It was midnight by the time the phone rang. What, a few hours previously, would have been an irritant now became a welcome distraction. She leaned over to the occasional table next to the sofa and lifted the receiver before the caller could even think of hanging up. Besides, only one person ever called her after midnight.

"Harry," she greeted him before he could get a word out.

"How did you know it was me?"

Ruth smiled, holding her hand out to the cat, clicking her fingers to get his attention. "For a spy, you can you be very predictable at times."

She heard a soft laugh at the other end of the line. "I only wanted to see if you were still up."

"And what if I wasn't?" she asked.

"I knew you would be. I knew you'd still be working, as well. I'm not the only predictable one."

"Touché," she replied, grinning. But her smile faded as she faced up to her failure. "God, Harry, it's like decoding the Voynich Manuscript. The number sample isn't big enough to spot a pattern, there's no key or book reference to give us any clues and, right now, I'm plucking number sequences out of thin air."

Her exasperation was met with a brief silence, during which she could hear the unmistakable clink of glass – a late night whiskey being poured.

"Ben's back on the Grid tomorrow morning," he stated, at length. "With some luck, he's kept the codes that they were using. It was probably one of those."

"I hope you're right," Ruth sighed. "But if he's a professional spy, he would have burned them immediately after use. It's protocol, Harry. If he doesn't have the code books – which he shouldn't – then our only hope is what's left at the bunker. Was everything burned?"

"According to Jo and Lucas, the fire was only in the toilets. If Ben comes up with nothing, we'll go down there together and look," he assured her. Following another pause, he added: "Ever heard of the Somerton Man?"

"Of course. Man found dead on a beach in Adelaide, years ago. The only possible clue to his fate were a few pages of obscure codes. Something to do with The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, wasn't it?" replied Ruth.

She cast her mind back to one particular day at University. A day spent in heated debate about the mystery, followed by her intense scouring of said text. Even now, the words came back to her: _"There was a door to which I found no key; there was a veil past which I could not see…" _There certainly was.

"Tamam Shud," added Harry, from the end of the line. "A strange extract from a very rare copy of the text printed only in New Zealand. But even with that major clue, they still couldn't break the codes he left."

Ruth laughed drily. "If you weren't a spy, Harry, you could do a great side line in morale raising speeches."

"I'm just saying, don't be so hard on yourself," he replied, gently. "Get some sleep and we'll all come back to it in the morning. Well, all of us except Lucas and Ros, probably."

Curiosity piqued, she asked. "What are they doing in the morning?"

"Nothing, they're doing it now," he replied, enigmatically.

"Which is what, exactly?"

* * *

"Lucas, hold the torch steady!"

Ros was a few feet ahead of him, but he couldn't see her properly. They were both dressed head to toe in black. This far out of London, it was pitch dark and only the stars and pale sickle moon offered natural light. Other than that, a torch, the narrow beam of which seemed to cut out at will, so Lucas had to slap it against the palm of his hand to get it working again. They made their way over uneven ground; rough terrain that was privately owned and rarely used, leading around the back of a Government owned laboratory. Lucas caught glimpses of the tall, electrified perimeter fence in the moonlight, and counted his lucky stars they were not expected to actually climb over it.

While he was busy estimating the height of the fence, he stumbled once more and sent the beam of the torch dancing over the grassy bumps of the ground.

"Lucas!" Ros hissed again.

But she stopped, turned back and helped him back to his feet. Close up, he could finally see her again. Her skin and hair almost ghost-like in the pale moonlight, making her green eyes almost transparent. He could see the smile on her lips, a few loose strands of hair had fallen out from under the black woolly hat she had on. She handed the torch back to him.

"We're at least a mile from the road now, what do you think?" she asked, softly. Somewhere in the distance, a cow mooed mournfully in reply. Lucas sniggered and even Ros herself was grinning when she added: "obviously a Black Flag agent right there."

"Can't be too careful," he retorted, giving the dead torch another slap. When it flared back into life, he continued: "Here will be fine, I think. But … they have remembered to deactivate the fence, haven't they?"

Ros was silent; not something Lucas took as a good sign. "Er," she said, at length. "Throw something at it?"

Something metal, Lucas thought as he shrugged the rucksack from off his shoulders. Once it was open on the floor he shone the beam of the torch inside. They had a camera to film their evening's exploits, bolt cutters to cut through the fence and various other bits and pieces. Ros knelt down as well, so they were still level with each other as they both picked up suitable looking items. They said the fence would be off from midnight, but it was only common sense to double check.

"Hey, maybe we can get one of those cows to walk into it?" Ros suggested.

"That would be a great start to my life as an Anarcho-Environmentalist, Ros," he replied, drily. "Anyway, let's try this."

He extracted a pair of bolt cutters and approached the perimeter fence again. The pair of them stood before it, side by side.

"Give me the torch," Ros instructed. "Throw when you're ready."

"If it is live, at least we get a nice romantic firework display," he mused, before lobbing the bolt cutters at the higher rungs of the fence. They bounced off the normally deadly wiring, and nothing happened.

"Ah well, not tonight it seems," said Ros as they both strode forwards.

It was Ros' job to man the camera, careful to keep Lucas' face out of shot as he cut through the fence. He worked steadily, making sure the opening was only just big enough to get them both through safely, but it was still hard work. He was flushed and sweating by the time he finished.

"You are filming this with night vision on, aren't you?" he asked, breathless and looking over his shoulder.

"Of course," she retorted. "It'll be an Anarchist friendly Blair Witch Project. Now stop looking at the camera and get on with it."

From there on in, they worked silently and stealthily. The grounds of the laboratory were smoother, better kept than the scrub land that formed a natural boundary between it and the surrounding farmlands. Before long, they were both running down a gravel path, loose stones crunching beneath heavy footfalls. The laboratory itself soon came into view, distant lights still on in the uppermost windows. They already knew where the back door was, that led into a staff room. But when they reached it, Lucas knelt down and consulted a fake plan of the building to make it look as though he didn't fully know where he was going and made sure Ros managed to get a good, lingering shot of it. After no more than another minute, he produced a lock pick from the door that he knew the night security staff had already left unlocked. But again, it had to look like a break-in for the benefit of the film. Once they were inside, he signalled to Ros to stop filming.

"Worried about your close-ups?" she asked, switching the camera off.

Lucas turned serious. "This next bit's my Oscar submission," he informed her. "I'll thank you to take it seriously."

But the joking stopped when they made it to the laboratory floor. Filming began again as they stepped into a wide, large room that was made cramped and claustrophobic by row after row of barred, metal cages. Inside each one, dead eyed rabbits curled up in corners. Some with their fur shaved, raw weeping skin on display in the torchlight. Some with strange contraptions wired into them. Others already dead. The air was sickeningly foul with the smell of animal shit and blood. As they passed the rows of cages, some of the animals limped up to the bars of their cages, seeming to watch them as they went. Lucas looked back, saw that look he had seen so many times before in the eyes of humans. Captive, trapped, in pain and scared out of their wits. Only this was worse: these tortured prisoners had no voice to scream. For just one second, Lucas understood why the activists did it. For half of that second, he admired them for it.

_The cure for every cancer is in this room_, he told himself. The cure for AIDS, the cure for Dementia, the cure for every bastard sickness and disease that wreaked havoc on the lives of everyone. But in that moment, even that reasoning felt hollow. His breath was ragged by the time he reached the cages of their planted animals. There were six in total, and Lucas found himself virtually tearing the metal cage doors off in anger and grief. He stuffed the squirming animals down the front of his jacket, handing others to Ros who threw the camera down and did the same. No longer caring whether they got their staged break in on camera, all Lucas needed was to rescue the stooge bunnies and get out of their as quick as possible.

Within a second of the final animal being "liberated" they were running full pelt back down the corridor and out through the staff room again. Once back outside, Lucas doubled over and sucked in deep lungfuls of clean air. When he looked back up again, he saw Ros standing over him, still cradling three of the six rabbits they took. To his almost boundless shock, tears were drying on her face. He could see it in the glare of the trip lights before the door.

"Don't look at me like that," she said. "I'm only human, you know."

He was about to say something, when his words were cut off by a low, menacing growl from the shadows. Alarmed, they both cast around, looking for the dogs. Amber eyes reflected in the light, snarling muzzles close behind as the huge Alsatians came slinking out of the shadows. They both froze and backed up against the wall of the lab, hugging the rabbits close.

"Shit, Lucas!" Ros hissed, low. "No one said anything about damn guard dogs!"

"They want the rabbits," he guessed, desperately trying to figure a way out.

Just as they began slowly backing away, however, a high whistle cut through the air. As though a spell had been broken, the dogs fell silent and ran back in the same direction from whence they came. Lucas breathed a sigh of relief as a middle aged man rounded the corner. A short man and portly, he was clearly well used to the guard dogs.

"Hello there," he greeted them. "Harry said you'd be coming tonight. I take you've done what needed doing then?"

Still apprehensive with the dogs so close and sniffing at the man's coat pocket, Ros could only manage a stiff nod.

"I'll get the caretakers to lock up then," the man said, reaching into his pocket and tossing biscuits to the dogs. He looked back at Lucas and Ros apologetically. "I'm sorry," he said, looking forlorn. "We have to do it, you know. If there was any other way … well, you know. We don't do cosmetics, here. Never, ever cosmetics; only new medicines."

It took Lucas a moment to realise he was talking about his job and he was clearly used to justifying himself. He probably did it all day, every day. But the sad fact was that he was right; there was no other way.

"We understand," Lucas replied.

The man raised a pained smile. "It's a truly necessary evil," he replied, sadly. "You'll be okay to get out again, or should I call one of the caretakers?"

"Oh, we're fine," Ros assured him.

They left the way they came, only in even more of a hurry. There was just one last thing left to do: release the rabbits in the wild and catch it on camera. With the time pushing on for three am, they wasted no more time. They found the opening they made in the fence and forced their way back through it. Ros started up the camera again as the released the rabbits. For a few seconds, they filmed them poking around in the undergrowth, feeling their way to freedom.

"That'll do," said Lucas. "Now let's go home."

He was already walking away, however Ros didn't follow him. He looked back over his shoulder, seeing what was holding her up.

"We can't," she said. "We need to get the little buggers back."

They were bred in captivity and bound for a petting farm in the morning; Lucas had quite forgotten. They would never survive in the wild.

"Oh, shit!"

"And Jo borrowed an extra one off her niece," Ros pointed out. "I think she did, anyway."

It was like catching smoke. They ended up crawling on their bellies as close as possible to the rabbits and launching themselves towards them in a surprise ambush, taking them at unawares. More than once, the little bastards squirmed out of their hands like a bag of hyperactive snakes. Ros tore her trousers and Lucas bashed his knee agonisingly on a jutting stone. His curses resounding across the countryside. They stashed the rabbits in the rucksack and carried the equipment in their arms back to the car.

"I bet they wish they were still in the cage," said Ros as they finally made it back.

The sun was rising. He would drop the film footage into Thames House before going home. Malcolm would doctor it as needed and add it to Lucas' new website. He looked across as Ros, starting up the car engine. She had lost her hat.

"You've got cow shit in your hair," he pointed out.

"Just like any other day at the office," she pointed out, indifferently. But when she turned to Lucas, just before driving away, she was completely serious. "Are you okay? It was pretty grim back there."

She had noticed, he thought to himself. But he raised a pained, sad smile. "I'm fine. Honestly," he lied.

* * *

It was dawn again. A sickly sliver of pale light piercing the darkness on the horizon. Leon hid from it in the kitchen, where the blinds were drawn and black coffee grew cold in his hands. Sitting at the breakfast table in silence, he marked the passage of time since he became a killer. Twenty four hours, now. He still felt sick. He had tried to sleep, but lay there on the mattress and stared at the ceiling. Every time he closed his eyes, the paralysis set in instantly. Immobilised, feeling like the breath was being wrung out of his lungs, he would see her again. He would force his eyes to open and the image would project into the real world around him. Still dripping wet, she was beside him, imploring him to speak to Lady Lazarus. Even when he snapped out of it and the hallucinations cleared, he would be left breathless and terrified.

For the last twenty-four hours, he had moved through a haze in a state of physical inertia while his emotions wreaked havoc. The next steps he decided on ranged from suicide, to running away and handing himself in to the police to confess all. But all the time, Lucile's last command returned; it echoed through his mind. Speak to Lady Lazarus; it's inside her and it's got his name on it. She didn't say what 'it' was, but she said Lady Lazarus would understand. It was just as well, because he didn't understand any of it.

"Leon."

His father's voice jolted him out of his tortured reverie. Whirling round, he saw his father still in pyjama bottoms and an old t-shirt. His normally smart, short cropped hair stuck up at angles like a hedgehog and his eyes were reddened from lack of sleep. David Shelley raised a pained smile. "You couldn't sleep either, then?"

Leon got up to put the kettle on. "No, sorry."

He apologised; finding himself apologising a lot. He filled the kettle and left it to boil.

"Dad," he said. "Who is Lady Lazarus? Wasn't she in the Bible?"

Shelley Senior managed a smile and a dry laugh. "Not quite," he replied. "Lazarus was raised from the dead by Jesus, that's right enough. But Lady Lazarus is a poem by Sylvia Plath about her failed suicide attempts." He paused as he recollected the poem in question, with all its disturbing references to death, self-destruction and the Holocaust. "Dying is an art form," he recalled. "And like everything else, I do it exceptionally well."

The quote made Leon shiver. To hide his distress, he continued making the tea. Meanwhile, his father was still musing on the poetry of Sylvia Plath – a poet of whom Leon had never heard.

"That was her third attempt, if I recall rightly," he was saying. "So clearly, she wasn't exceptionally good at it. Still, she got there in the end."

Shocked at his father's flippant attitude, Leon almost spilled boiling water on himself.

"Maybe there's more than one type of death," he said, looking back at his father.

David Shelley sat at the table, in Leon's recently vacated spot, looking somewhat concerned.

"Leon," he said, "bring over the pot and sit down."

Realising he had raised suspicion, Leon sat down reluctantly. He poured tea only for his father and left his own recently used mug storing cold dregs of coffee. His father watched him carefully.

"If there was something wrong," he began. "You would tell me, wouldn't you?"

Leon shrugged, trying to be casual although he felt anything but. "It's just the assassination," he said. "What if they come for you next?"

"Leon," David sighed in response. "The PM has tightened our security up a hundred fold. No one will be allowed to get within a thousand feet of any MP until this business is dealt with. Do you understand?"

Leon nodded. "I guess so."

"Still not sure of the Plath connection, though."

"It's nothing," replied Leon, just as his phone beeped, warning him of a text message. "She's just someone I need to speak to."

David frowned. "You'll have your work cut out. She killed herself back in the sixties."

"Oh not her, I mean someone else … someone different," Leon blurted out as he got up. "I need to check this," he added, snatching his phone up.

He read Emma's message out in the hallway. There was yet another surprise coming, later that morning. All he felt was a cold, sickening dread.

* * *

The news flashed up on Ruth's computer screen at ten am, that morning. In the middle of doing something else, she almost ignored it. But the tagline caught her eye in time: "Black Flag claim responsibility for assassination." She opened it up then and called out to the others. Jo Portman, Harry and Ben Kaplan – only just back on the Grid after the horror of the previous day. They convened moments later in the meeting room, gathered around the screen to catch the announcement on the news.

They listened in silence, feeling the acute sense of failure all over again. Everything now hinged on Lucas' moonlighting as a fringe activist, enticing these misfits into their traps.

* * *

**Thanks again for reading; reviews would be welcome.**


	10. Teenage Kicks

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you.**

* * *

**Chapter Ten: Teenage Kicks  
**

"Is that the lot, missus?"

The man in the ill-fitting jeans had just treated Ros to the last flash of his hairy arse crack as he bent down to pick up the final rabbit cage. He loaded it into the back of a white van with the Mrs. Tiggywinkle's Petting Zoo logo and telephone number and turned back towards her with a clipboard in his hands. Ros tried to smile, but she'd tried not to look at the man's crack and failed miserably at that too. He walked up the path and adjusted the angle of his Mrs Tiggywinkle's cap, sliding a pen from behind his ear. When he reached her again, he handed her both the clipboard and the pen.

"Just sign your name there and there," he instructed, indicating the relevant dotted lines.

Taking the clipboard and pen, Ros signed her fake name with a flourish and handed it back.

"That's the lot, thanks," she replied, handing the documents back.

The man nodded, and turned to walk away. But then he paused and looked back at Ros, still standing in the doorway. She had been waiting for this moment, she had sensed its approach since the man first turned up. Mrs. Tiggywinkle's had been given a cover story to explain the rabbits and why they needed to be taken, but Malcolm's excuses needed some serious work: he'd told the petting zoo that they were simply unwanted pets.

"You know," he said, gesticulating with the clipboard. "People like you really shouldn't take on new pets unless you're willing to take care of them, for the rest of their lives."

The colour rose in her cheeks, but she wasn't going to be beaten that easily. "And people like you shouldn't leave the house unless you have jeans that fit and a sturdy belt. Good day, sir."

Ros was smiling now. She closed the door on the man's wide-eyed, scandalised face and returned to the kitchen, where Lucas was nursing a fresh pot of tea and a bulging, squirming sweater. Pausing in the doorway, she leaned against the frame and took in the sight of him. His gaze kept darting down the front of his sweater, where she could just see two large ears jutting from the collar, brushing against Lucas' throat.

"Should I be jealous?" she asked, smiling despite her deep reservations.

When Lucas looked up at her, he had a silent, imploring look in his eye. He wrapped his arms protectively and gently around the bulge in his sweater. "He's only a baby, Ros… I just couldn't let him go."

It had happened during the late night Op. Their stooge bunnies were housed alongside other rabbits that hadn't yet been tested for anything, to stop them accidentally getting mixed in with those that had. Their cages had been marked with luminous white stickers, so they knew which ones were theirs. However, Ros knew that all of the animals on that side of the room were untested. All she had to do was accidentally on purpose open up another cage and rescue one of the real test animals. An action she could only risk once, and a risk she took with the intention of sending the animal off to a better life with the others. But all actions had unintended consequences, and now the real rescue bunny was snuggled down Lucas' sweater.

"Lucas," she groaned. "You can't keep him."

Lucas raised the hem of his sweater and out from under it a rabbit with caramel coloured fur wriggled out. He was plump, with long pale gold ears and wide black eyes. Lucas sat him on the breakfast bar and poked a raw carrot at him. The rabbit sniffed at the tip of the carrot, before starting to nibble furiously at it, to Lucas' clear delight.

"We've bonded," said Lucas, looking back up Ros. "See."

Faced with defeat, Ros moved over to sit beside Lucas and his new pet and sighed deeply.

"He'll dehydrate unless you get a proper water bottle for him. One of those ones you fix to the side of a proper hutch. You know hutches? Those rabbit houses that you also do not possess. They tend to have straw and wood shavings which, would you believe it, you also seem to lack."

Lucas grinned sheepishly and had the decency to blush. "Can you tell Harry I might be late for work? I have some stuff to pick up from the pet shop."

Ros could just imagine the look on Harry's face as she explained this one away. For that reason alone, she readily agreed to do it. "Take your time."

It was only ten am, and because of their late night they were not due in until the afternoon, anyway.

"Thanks, Ros," replied Lucas, getting up and kissing her temple. "I better go now. Just put this little fella back in his box before you leave. There's a blanket and some lettuce in there for him."

He grabbed his car keys from within the fruit bowl on the kitchen table and was just making for the back door when Ros called him back.

"Wait a minute!" she said, reaching for her mobile phone. "Let me take a photo of you holding him."

Lucas looked dubious. "Er, what?"

"As loath as I am to encourage this folly," she explained. "I do think it'd make a great anecdote for your fake website."

She had her phone ready by the time Lucas had the rabbit back in his arms. He was holding it the same way most people hold new born babies, but that was all the better for Ros. She framed the photograph so that Lucas' head and shoulders were out of shot. Only his chest was in frame and the rabbit was the main focus. Satisfied, she slid the phone back into her pocket and kissed Lucas goodbye.

* * *

Leon's hands shook as he fumbled with the loose change to pay his bus fare. The driver sighed heavily and rolled his eyes, trying to hurry him up. Leon tried to apologise, flushing brightly as he remembered that there were still other people waiting behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, to where a young woman with a pushchair was frowning at him in frustration and an elderly gentleman queued with admirable patience. But the distraction made him drop his money and coins rolled off into the distance and under the seats. Giving up in mounting desperation, he pulled a five pound note from his wallet and held it out to the driver.

"Is that enough to get to Milbank?" he asked, realising he didn't even know how much it cost.

The driver gave the bank note a filthy look. "I ain't got change for that, son. Three pounds forty-five pence; that's how much it is."

Mercifully, he found two £2 coins and dropped them down on the counter fixed to the driver's door. Without waiting for the change, he lurched off down the aisle to find a vacant seat. But he'd barely gone a few steps before he heard the angry voice of the driver calling him back.

"Your ticket!"

Reluctantly, embarrassed, Leon turned to fetch his ticket, doing his best to ignore the cursing driver.

"That personality by-pass really must've hurt," Leon snarked at him, snatching the ticket away.

Once seated, he slouched low on the back seat and hoisted his ruck sack onto his lap. Inside, he had packed a spare set of socks and boxer shorts, along with his tooth brush and tooth paste and a can of deodorant. In his wallet, he had thirty pounds to tide him over, should he need it. But now that he was on his way, he didn't know if he would be allowed to keep any of it. He would be in prison by the end of the day and, even if they did let him keep his spare underwear and hygiene products, he hardly had enough to tide him over for two full life sentences. His stomach churned painfully as he thought about it. He wasn't thinking straight; he knew he wasn't thinking straight but he didn't know what else to do. All he knew was that he needed to be prepared, but he didn't know what for. He had never been in trouble with the law before and he couldn't imagine what was awaiting him at the end of his journey.

Can people even walk into Thames House? Leon had no clue. Before that morning, he hadn't even known where Thames House was and only found it courtesy of Google maps. There was no information about how to get in, or who to approach once in there. But surely, he thought to himself, there will be guards on the door who would be willing to help.

Every shop the bus drove past had newsstands bearing headlines relating to the assassination of Sinead Kelly. It was everywhere Leon turned. And now, so to was Black Flag's claim of responsibility. Finally, Emma was getting the credibility she craved. Once, she thrilled him; he thought she understood him. He believed in her and what she said. That they could make a difference; they could make the world a better place. She lied to him, just like everyone else. But could he betray her, even now? His mouth ran dry with fear as he pondered that internal question. No, he didn't want to betray her. He had to betray her, before anyone else could get hurt or killed.

As the bus wound through the streets of London, Leon pondered their relationship. She had been gentle with him when they first made love – her realising that it was his first time. They had spent whole nights chatting on Skype, after she had learned that his insomnia was so bad that he spent his nights alone and lonely. She let him talk about the things that made him cry and the things that made him feel unloved. Emma was thoughtful, passionate and tender. It was only in the heat of the moment that he had seen her become fanatical, ruthless and cold. It was only with hindsight that he realised Emma had come into his life when he was at his most vulnerable, and wrung him so hard his pips had not so much begun to squeak, but to mush together to form a light, fluffy paste. Yet, he couldn't be angry with her. She was doing what manipulative people do – he was the one who allowed himself to be manipulated.

With all the emotions boiling inside him, he didn't even realise he was in tearing up. Hastily, he swiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket and sighed with relief when his stop came into view. He ignored the driver completely as he hopped off the bus and walked towards the roundabout on Milbank. Thames House was right there, on the corner. Opposite it was the busy road and the river. Some tree lined walkways were in the distance. The building couldn't be missed. But, to his dismay, there were no doormen or guards to be seen anywhere. He tried to stop a passer-by to see if they knew how to get in, but the man blanked him as though he were invisible.

There, Leon paused and looked up at Thames House. Several stories high, it was an imposing building with a grand entrance. Large double doors of oak that remained firmly shut to him, and any other member of the public. Would there be a reception on the other side of the door? Do spies even have a reception desk? Where he stood, he was being jostled by the people passing outside. Not one of them stopped to look at Thames House, less still actually walk inside. Realising that he had mistaken things, Leon began to back away. As he stepped backwards, he bumped into someone walking up behind him.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out, whirling round to see who'd he'd trodden on.

She was a tall woman, with neat shoulder length blond hair and hard eyes. Dressed smartly, in expensive jeans and a smart white blouse.

"For God's sake, watch it!" she snapped at him, before striding towards the door of Thames House.

Leon swiftly overcame his embarrassment and called out to the woman. "Hey! Wait a minute!"

But the door to Espionage HQ slammed shut in his face as he rushed to catch up with her. Taking the hint, Leon walked turned and walked back down the road with feet that felt as though they had turned to lead.

* * *

Ruth glanced over the website with a critical eye. The colour scheme was a militaristic bright green and black. The text and font a bold silver white, lined in black. Down the right hand side was a sidebar with contact details, an archives section that had been entirely fabricated by herself and Malcolm, a picture gallery with stills from the lab break-in; a film section that contained clips of Ros' footage and, most importantly of all, a guestbook open to the browsing public. They had covered their tracks by hosting the site on a German server, so no hackers could trace it back to them and their IP was running through a proxy that bounced it round the globe. All were tactics employed by other activist groups so in itself, would not arouse suspicion.

To Ruth's left, the web designer Malcolm, was watching her reaction carefully. Occasionally, he glanced over at Harry, who was sat to his right. As always, the boss' expression was all but unreadable. He just looked mildly curious as he scratched at his chin, green eyes deepened in the reflected glow of the website. Eventually, Harry leaned forwards in his seat and pointed the tip of a biro at the link for the Guestbook.

"So, we can harvest the IP addresses of any person who posts a comment there?" he asked, turning to Malcolm.

"As long as they're not using a proxy," replied Malcolm. "And most people don't. Luckily for us, the majority of people think all they have to do is erase their browsing history, cache and cookies in order to be untraceable. But the hard core will know about proxies, I daresay."

That was Harry's main concern: that the ones they really wanted would have wised up to traceable IP addresses a long time ago. They were placing too much reliance on the technical ignorance of the people they sought. But for now, it was all they had. Ruth's concerns, however, were more aesthetic.

"Do you really think Lucas wants to be known to all the world as "The Bovine Warrior"?" she asked, one brow raised disbelievingly.

To Malcolm's other side, Harry snorted with laughter. The techie, however, was rather more abashed.

"I'm afraid to say I really couldn't think of anything better," he explained, apologetically. "Er, any suggestions?"

"No! That's good, Malcolm," Harry interjected, grinning impishly. "Sounds like some kind of super hero for livestock. Can we make him a special cow skin cape? A bit like Batman, except Lucas will be Cowman?"

Ruth's brow creased into a scowl. "Cow skin?" she repeated, quizzically. "Isn't that leather?"

"No, I mean the full black and white cow coloured type," retorted Harry. "Every super hero needs a super hero weapon. How about a set of fully functioning udders-"

The rest of Harry's sentence was cut off by an indignant Malcolm. "Please, you two, can we start to take this seriously?"

He shot them both looks of purest disapproval, first to Harry the main offender, then to Ruth who'd dissolved into laughter she fought to suppress. They chorused their apologies before turning back to the website. It hadn't yet gone live, so they still had time to tinker with it. Because one of Harry's main concerns was that their Anarcho-Environmentalist was a little too perfect, a little too fully formed. It was as if The Bovine Warrior had sprung from the earth, fully formed, instead of developing naturally. He had a huge back catalogue of actions that no one would have heard of, even though they were newsworthy. However, his musings on Lucas' thin plausibility was interrupted by the arrival of Ros Myers on the Grid.

Harry checked the clock, noticing it was still only midday and he hadn't been expecting Ros or Lucas for another hour. Not after they had been working until the small hours of the morning. She caught his eye and wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"Some horrible teenage thing bumped into me outside," she complained, approaching the station around which all three were gathered. "It actually touched me," she added with horror.

Horror that wasn't feigned. She held her arms up as though expecting to see some physical manifestation of this encounter breaking out on her skin.

"That must have been awful for you, Ros," said Ruth, making room for her. "Do you think you might have been infected?"

Ros paused, still on her feet. "Actually, I think I accidentally slammed the door in his face."

Harry sat back and gave his Section Head a most curious look. "_Accidentally_?" he repeated, disbelievingly. The others hid their smirks.

"Yes, accidentally," replied Ros, looking scandalised. "He said something, but I was already through the door. When I went back out to see what he wanted, he was gone."

Malcolm looked thoughtful for a minute. "Maybe he was just wanted to apologise?"

Ros shrugged. "It's possible, I suppose."

"Curious," said Harry. "Anyway, is Lucas with you?"

Ros sat down in the chair Ruth pulled up and looked at Harry with a grin from ear to ear. "You'll never guess why he's running late."

A number of expressions chased themselves across Harry's face as Ros explained the situation. He couldn't decide whether anger or hilarity were more fitting; as ever the job had left him feeling conflicted. Ruth, however, looked impressed. "Well, I think it's sweet."

"And it does give us more fodder for the site," Malcolm chipped in. "A nice feel good story. Do you have the photo you took, Ros? I'll upload it to the site now."

Harry noticed that Ruth had returned to her attempts at cracking Lucile's last code. As they she had predicted the night before, Ben had burned the codes they were using so they didn't have that to go on. Beneath the veneer of their chatter and banter, the situation remained as grim as it was before. They had one out of control, newly budding terrorist group that had killed two people, and very little information to go on.

"Ros," said Harry, getting to his feet.

Ros got up also, and Harry drew her to one side.

"Once Malcolm's finished, call Lucas and tell him to go straight over to David Shelley's house instead of coming here. Ask him to find out what he can about Kelly's last movements and whether there's any way information could have leaked from within his department. Then once he's spoken to the Secretary, to come back here."

Ros nodded in agreement. "Sure."

"Then you and I can go and see the Home Secretary now."

With that, he turned towards his office to get ready to go.

* * *

Lucas knelt down in front of the new rabbit hutch and poked his finger through the bars. The newly christened Starsky hopped over to him right away, sniffing at his finger to see if it was edible. They were an unlikely duo, but one that would serve a higher purpose. "If I'm going undercover, then so are you," he informed the rabbit, now nipping at the pad of his finger. Once he'd adjusted the water bottle, Lucas got up and returned to the kitchen to get his keys. He was running late for his meeting with the Secretary of State.

After the usual painful crawl through the London afternoon traffic, Lucas finally made it to the home of the Defence Secretary. His house was one of many in a smart cul-de-sac in the north of the city. White washed and immaculate, the Edwardian houses were among the most sought after in the city. Not bad at all for a former Communist agitator from West Yorkshire. He parked up opposite the house, pulling the car up as close as he could to the railings that surrounded the opposite park. The road was empty, the other residents still at work at that hour. So Lucas crossed without hesitation, opening the decorative gate and taking the front steps two at a time. Once he had rang the doorbell, he stood back from the door and drew a deep breath. He made sure his dark jacket was at least smart looking, as he got the thoughts in his head straightened out.

Following a wait of no more than half a minute, the door was open by a teenage boy. Lucas had to look downwards at him, he was barely five foot seven. Thin and pale, with an over-abundance of loose black curls that fell into his equally dark eyes. He looked like he'd been dragged backwards through a hedge.

"Can I speak to your father, please?" asked Lucas, having to guess at the boy's relationship to David Shelley.

Beneath that mop of a fringe, the boy's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "You're not a journalist, are you?"

Lucas attempted a reassuring smile as he took out his wallet. Inside, he kept a false Police badge, but Shelley senior would know who he was.

"Chief Inspector Liam Nicholls," he said, holding up the ID card.

The boy took it from him and held it close to his face. Lucas waited patiently, pretending he wasn't surprised at the boy's attention to detail. Evidently satisfied, the door opened fully and Lucas stepped inside.

"Come with me," said the teen. "He's in his study."

Lucas noticed the kid was shaking as he handed back the ID card, but he supposed it was natural. He followed him towards the back of the hallway, up a flight of stairs and then another, where the boy stopped in front of a large oak door. A spacious house, the corridor led two ways, seemingly to a bathroom and some private bedrooms and there was another floor above them. The walls were all soulless, neutral colours that made the place feel sterile and cold. Only the thick pile carpet beneath his feet felt anything like 'home'.

The boy introduced 'Liam Nicholls' to his father, once they were inside the equally spacious and neutral office, but the Defence Secretary already knew who Lucas really was. The father smiled indulgently at the son before showing him the door. Before leaving, the teen looked back at Lucas appraisingly. A look that made him feel uncomfortable.

"Harry said you'd be coming, Mr North. Thank you. Is Ms Myers not with you?"

Lucas shook the man's hand. "No, she's been called away. But all I want is to ask a few questions. If that's okay?"

It wasn't okay. The other man was grieving and he perched on the edge of his desk, looking over at Lucas though bloodshot, tired eyes. But all the same, he nodded his head and tried to raise a smile. He had to go through the motions; he would do it because it had to be done. "Yes," said the Defence Secretary. "Yes, of course."

* * *

Leon got as far as the stairs, where he sat on the top step with his knees drawn up to his chest and chin propped on his knees. He couldn't hear what was being said in the office, but nor was he trying to. He wrapped his arms around himself, making himself as small as possible on the steps, thinking and dwelling. He remembered everything that Lucile had told him before they killed her. It had occurred to him that the Policeman already knew it was him, that he was in there only to tell his Dad what he'd done. But if that were true, his father seemed to be taking the news that his only child was as good as a murder rather well. He could see the door to the study through the bars of the bannister, he could just hear the muffled murmur of the two men's voices.

So he waited, and waited. His backside ached horribly and his nerves were screaming at him again. But still he waited on the top step, feeling numb and empty. When the Policeman came out again, well over an hour later, his father came with him. The two men frowned when they saw him sitting there. If it hadn't been for the Policeman's continued presence, his father would have scolded him there and then. Feeling stiff and sore, Leon got up from where he'd been sat.

"I'll show the Policeman out, you stay here," he told his father.

For a minute, it looked as if his father would insist. But eventually, he nodded and bid farewell to the visitor there. Alone with the policeman, Leon led the way back down the stairs, to the front door. But before he opened it, he paused and looked up at the other man. Tall and uncompromising, his jaw was set like he'd been carved from rock. He was imposing in a way that Leon would have felt himself shrinking back under any circumstances.

"It was me," he said to the Policeman.

For a moment, it seemed as though he hadn't been heard. The Policeman's eyes narrowed, looking him up and down.

"What?"

Leon's gaze lowered, so he was looking at his feet. "I said it was me. I did it."

When he looked back up at the Policeman, he wore the expression of a man showing great forbearance. "Look, kid, if this some joke-"

"No!" Leon cut him off abruptly. "There was a woman in a bunker, her name was Lucile. She told me there was something inside her, that has my name on it and if you look for it, you'll find it. She told me I had to speak with Lady Lazarus, but she didn't tell me how to contact her. She said something about GCHQ, but I don't think Lazarus is there. I don't know how else to prove it. Check what I say and it's true, I swear-"

"Wait, wait!" the Policeman's expression darkened, his demeanour rigid. He was taking him seriously now, Leon could tell. All that despite the fact his explanation sounded like the ravings of a lunatic. The policeman looked up the stairs, the way they'd just come. When he looked back at Leon, he spoke soft and low. "Tell your Dad you're going to stay with a friend for the night. Then you're coming with me."

* * *

**Thanks again for reading, reviews would be great. Thank you.**


	11. Forgiveness

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you.**

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: Forgiveness**

Once more, giving his father the slip was easy for Leon. When he returned to the hallway where the Policeman was waiting, he found the man where he left him: half in shadow, standing near the front door. He looked like darkness made substance. Only now, he was talking in low tones to someone on his mobile. Making no effort to listen in, Leon fetched his jacket from the stand in the front room and checked he had his wallet and keys. By the time he was done, so to was the Policeman's call. They regarded each other in silence for a long moment. The older man's piercing blue eyes seemed to be searching him, weighing him up by the ounce. His expression unnervingly blank, but it was clear that below the surface a small storm of conclusions were being raced towards.

Leon tried to think of something to say, but as he looked up into the man's inscrutable face, he lost his nerve. Everything seemed inadequate. Instead, he tried to reach for the door latch to let them both out. But the Policeman wouldn't budge. He continued to stare at Leon in silent appraisal. After a few moments that felt like hours, he reached into his inside jacket and held an ID card up for Leon to look at.

"Take it," he said, his voice a low rumble.

He did so, reading the details there. Whatever name the Policeman had given him when he first opened that door, it wasn't Lucas North. And the Policeman was no Policeman, he was a "Senior Case Officer" from MI-5. A few hours before, he would have been relieved. But now, his apprehension steadily increased. He handed back the ID card, muttering a stammered thanks.

"And your name is?" Lucas North prompted him.

"Oh, sorry. It's Leon."

Now that their real identities had been cleared up, Leon was finally led out of the house. Outside, it was a stark contrast to the gloomy hallway. It was still bright and sunny; so much so, it hurt Leon's eyes and he blinked rapidly as he adjusted to it. Meanwhile, he was being led to a sleek, black car on the opposite side of the road. He went to open the back door to get in, but Lucas' hand shot out and gripped him by the wrist.

"I'm sorry," Leon blurted out, trying to take a step back.

Even in broad daylight, Lucas North had a permeable air of menace about his being. Leon wondered if Lucas knew Lucile Adams, which would at least explain the situation. Maybe, he thought, he was about to be taken for a swimming lesson in the Thames in armbands of concrete? But when the other man spoke, he sounded mildly apologetic.

"Sit in the front with me," he said. "The back seat's covered in rabbit shit."

At first, Leon thought he had misheard, but he thought it best to simply go with it. "Oh," he replied. "Okay. Er, that's fine."

Lucas had gripped his wrist so hard, there were red marks there after he let go. But Leon said nothing as he moved round to the other side of the car and got into the passenger seat. Before Lucas got in, he made another quick phone call that Leon couldn't hear. While he waited, he glanced over his shoulder, where a half-eaten carrot lay among the aforementioned mess. A ruck sack was also on the backseat, on its side and open, covered in loose rabbit fur. There had to be more practical ways of transporting pets, he thought. He was snapped out of his snooping when the car door opened and Lucas joined him. He started the car immediately, but before he pulled away, he looked over at Leon, once more apologetic.

"It was late; I didn't have time to clean it up," he explained, giving a nod to the backseat.

"No, really, it's fine," replied Leon. "So, am I under arrest now?"

It felt so strange to have the Officer apologising to him that Leon thought it a good time to remind the man of why he was there. But Lucas simply pulled out into the road.

"I can't arrest you," he finally answered. "MI-5 are not a secret police."

"Oh, so are you taking me to the Police?"

Lucas smiled a lop-sided smile. "Why on earth would I do that?"

Stunned at the question, Leon faltered before answering. "Well, because of the dead people, perhaps? One of them was your colleague."

The smirk on the spy's face remained intact. "If you go to the police, they'll just throw you in prison," he stated, while navigating his way through traffic. "But if you come to us, you'll work with us and your whole organisation will be taken out, root and stem. You'll continue to work with us, just on the off chance that they feel like a comeback. Our way makes much more sense."

Now that Leon had started talking, he began to worry that he was talking too much. The other man didn't invite further conversation; he kept his gaze fixed firmly on the road ahead. So Leon turned to the passenger window, watching the city pass in a rapid blur. But all the while, a hundred and one questions raced through his mind: 'what next?' was chief among them. For now, he would have to wait.

* * *

As soon as the call from Lucas ended, Ruth got back to work. Harry and Ros had returned from the Home Secretary's over half an hour previously, but she didn't say anything to them. She didn't say anything to anyone. Taking the scrap of paper on which she had written Leon Shelley's name and another scrap with Lucile's code on it, she headed for the empty meeting room. Firstly, she wrote the numbers on the whiteboard, separating them into individual groups. Secondly, she wrote Leon Shelley's in the space above the first eleven digits. They fit. The Ls and the Es all had the same number, and Ruth now had a sample with which she could figure out the method and get the final part of the encrypted message. It was just one word, with one L and an N.

Soon, the whiteboard was smeared green and red from where she was making mistakes and smearing over them with an old rag left at the side of the board. She wrote over and over it in black, trying to make the new text stand out as the equations Lucile used to get the numbers finally fell into place. The final word revealed itself, one number at a time: "Catalonia."

Once done, Ruth took a step back and looked at the whole message. They would never have got it if the kid hadn't voluntarily come forwards, but Catalonia meant nothing to her. Strangely dejected, she sat down in the seat at the head of the table that was normally occupied by Harry. In the absence of the others, with the smart screen dark and silent, it seemed especially lonely in the meeting room. But she wasn't left languishing for long, before Harry entered bearing fresh tea for her.

"I hope you don't mind," he said. "But I saw you coming in here and wondered what you were up to."

He sat to her left, in front of the whiteboard so he had to turn around to see it.

"The Secretary of State's son," she said, quietly. "Who would have thought it?"

Despite the sombre atmosphere, Harry raised a pained smile. "Oh, all the best activists come from nice wealthy families," he said, lightly. "Who was that rich, powerful – and not to mention English – socialite who joined the IRA in 1916? She actually led a contingent of men into the Easter Rising."

"Countess Markievicz," Ruth answered. "At least she was a grown woman when she joined. Leon Shelley's just a kid."

"Oh, come on Ruth. Surely you had dreams of the revolution when you were that age?" Harry retorted, making it sound like a challenge.

Ruth smirked. "I might have done, but I refuse to believe you ever did!"

He winked at her. "Classified."

"Tease!" she shot back, giving him a nudge under the table with her foot.

His eyes widened, their gaze meeting across the table. "Now who's a tease?" he demanded. "Anyway, I have to go. Don't wait for me tonight, I'll be sitting in on Lucas' chat with Mr Shelley."

"Then why don't I go to yours and make the dinner?" she suggested.

"Sounds good," he agreed, getting up and kissing the top of her head before returning to the Grid. "I'll call you when we're done."

Ruth watched him leave. Out of some old fashioned sense of propriety, she waited for a few minutes until after he had left before going leaving the room herself, lest anyone should get the wrong impression.

* * *

Lucas still didn't know what to make of Leon. He watched the kid carefully, unashamedly staring across the table in the interview suite. But Leon didn't look up; something on the surface of the table seems to have grabbed his attention, because he stared and started at it with a furrowed brow. He should be out chasing skirt, or playing football at the weekends before getting falling down drunk on cheap cider and smoking weed. If Lucas remembered rightly, that was a rough approximation of what he was doing at that age. But then, he was someone else back then. Literally.

A jug of water was on the table, next to a Dictaphone that would be activated as soon as Harry arrived. There were also three of their finest plastic cups nabbed from the water cooler on the Grid. Lucas filled two of them and nudged one over to Leon. The boy murmured his gratitude, but didn't touch the cup. He merely looked at it, his black eyes glittering dully in the overhead strip light as he briefly looked up at Lucas. Then he returned to that spot on the table, frowning intently like he bore the weight of the world on his shoulders, chewing at the nail of his middle finger so much he was drawing blood. Even when Harry entered the room, Leon remained locked in his own little world.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, getting settled into the chair at Lucas' side. "Shall we begin?"

He paused there, glancing at their guest before switching on the Dictaphone to record the whole interview. When the red light flashed on the device, Leon finally snapped out of his trance and looked at Harry as if he'd never seen another living soul before.

"We meet again," Harry said to Leon. "Well, what have you got for us?"

Stunned by the sudden spot light, Leon seemed dumbstruck for a moment. Nervously, he sipped at the water Lucas had given him before choking on his own words. Harry was leaning back in his chair, his gaze never wavering from Leon, making the teen even more nervous. Lucas noticed he was shaking, in a mental tailspin as he tried to find his own starting point.

"Tell us first, how Black Flag knew about the bunker in Suffolk," Lucas suggested. "Then tell us how you got in there and what happened to our Operative, Mrs Lucile Adams."

Given a solid starting point, Leon finally found his tongue. In a quiet, flat voice he told them about the listening devices in his house, the meeting where the arrangements for the Minister's tour were thrashed out and how he came to know about it. He admitted to stealing his father's documents and making illegal copies of them. His voice was so weak that Harry snapped at him to speak up, making the teen flinch as if he'd been slapped. But both Lucas and Harry listened in silence as Leon recounted Lucile's final hours. The ambush in the dark woods, deliberately disorientating Lucile and blocking all her escape routes. It was so simple, and so effective.

"They told me to sit with her in that dormitory," he explained. "I recognised her from when she was round my Dad's house, so I took off my mask and talked to her…"

Lucas wanted to interject, to start asking the rush of questions in his head. But they had to let Leon tell his side of story unimpeded. The cross-examination could wait. Meanwhile, Leon looked up at them, his gaze flitting between both Lucas and Harry as he explained the attempted escape through feigned illness, the waterboarding and final moments of Lucile's life. Those last minutes the most painful to listen to: a lone woman up against six attackers, all masked and armed; locked in a place where no one would hear her screams.

It made Lucas feel sick to his stomach; even Harry's silence was strained as he took it all in. In the end, Harry suddenly shot to his feet and began pacing the short length of the room in agitation. If Leon was just a little older, a little move evenly matched, Lucas knew he would have been met with a few accidents by now. Alas, both he and Harry had to restrain themselves and endure. When Leon explained to them how Emma Richards killed Lucile, his words finally trailed off into a loaded silence.

Harry had come to a rest by the back wall, behind Lucas. He looked at Leon through narrowed eyes. "So you did not kill Lucile?"

Leon returned his gaze imploringly. "No, Sir. But it was me who supplied the information that led to her being discovered and killed. Her … and the Minister."

Slowly, his gaze lowered and he began gnawing at his fingernail again. Brow furrowed, Leon could no longer look at either of the spies in the room and seemed to be increasingly shrinking into himself. A tortoise in retreat, but had no shell hard enough from what Lucas could see. Something inside Lucas stirred against the teen's reactions; a dark, shifting something in the pit of his belly. It made him shift in his seat and cast about for a distraction that came in form of sorting he papers in front of him.

"When you supplied this information to Black Flag," Lucas said. "You didn't realise they would use it to kill both our Operative and the Minister?"

"No, sir," replied Leon, now turning to look at the Senior Case Officer.

At the rear of the room, half in shadow, Harry was incredulous. He swooped down on the table, fists slammed on the table right beside Leon, making him jump out of his skin. "What did you think they would do with it, you idiot? Throw a surprise party for her?"

Harry's voice reverberated round the small space, each word seeming to hit the teen like a physical blow. The Section Head was unmoved, he continued to loom over Leon like a cat pawing its prey before ripping it to shreds. The look in his eyes was unlike anything Lucas had seen in him since Adam Carter was killed. As for Leon, he was scared out of his wits now. Fear that could be suffocating.

"I didn't think they would do anything with the information about the bunker," he said. "I just thought it would be useful for them to know; not to act upon. And for the Minister: I thought they would organise a protest along the routes." He paused, shoulders slumped in defeat and drew a deep breath. He had blurted everything out in a rush, but now Leon calmed himself and continued more slowly:

"Emma does this thing with tennis balls. She cuts them open and fills them with match heads. Just the little red tip, nothing else. Thousands of them; then seals them to they look like ordinary tennis balls again. Then she throws them against a wall, or bounces them hard against the ground. They ignite with a loud bang – like a bomb – and ignite with a bright pink flare. I thought she would make a load of those and take them on a protest, or something. She has lots of little things like that: they make a lot of noise, cause a lot of disruption – but don't kill anyone."

Harry remained in place, louring over Leon like a thundercloud about to burst. But the angry colour had drained from the Section Head's face. Now, he just looked incredulously down at Leon, silently weighing up the pros and cons of giving him a smack round the head. Again, Lucas felt the uncomfortable truth squirm inside him, like a living thing he thought long dead. Desperately, the Senior Case Officer tried to pick holes in Leon's story.

"That still doesn't explain why you passed on details about Lucile, in the bunker," he said, firmly. "You must have known they would do something with it."

"In truth, sir," replied Leon. "I wanted to prove myself to them. I wanted to show them that I could access top level information that they could use. But, I never thought for a moment that they would kill people-"

"But what did you think they would do with it?" Harry's temper had snapped again and he bellowed the words almost directly into Leon's ear.

"Sabotage!" the teen retorted, growing desperate. "Like I said before: Emma has lots of tricks. I was told we were a protest movement. Not a kill squad. I thought we would be limited to stuff like the hoax poisoning at that factory."

Harry continued to glower at Leon, who was breaking piece by piece and Lucas could only watch. "Are you that fucking naïve?"

Leon looked away from Harry, his expression crumpling as he struggled to hold back the tears. He swallowed the last of his water, gulping down hard to try and regain control of himself, managing quite admirably under the circumstances.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice once more low and cracked.

"That's not what I asked!" Harry insisted, waspishly. "I asked: are you that fucking naïve?"

With his head hung low, Leon bit heavily into the rim of the plastic cup as the first, fat tears dripped down his face. He quickly swiped at them with the sleeve of his jacket in the hope that no one noticed, but Lucas could tell he had crossed the point of no return now.

"Harry," said Lucas, his voice barely above a whisper.

The two men looked at one another for a second, before Harry nodded towards the door.

Outside, they could see onto the Grid through a set of double doors, but it was empty and darkened now. Lucas hadn't realised how long the interrogation had lasted. They stood in bewildered silence for a minute, while Harry composed himself and took a few deep breaths. For a second, Lucas even wondered whether he should nip into the boss' office and get the man a double whiskey. Once Harry was calm again, Lucas gave him the benefit of his opinion.

"He's just a kid, Harry. How many of the hardened killers and terrorists you've dealt with over the years burst into tears, after being just shouted at a bit?"

Harry sighed heavily. "I have to admit, that's the first." He paused, all his anger replaced with a strange defeated sorrow. "Sadly, he's far from the first whose interrogation has lasted long past their bedtime." He raised the ghost of a smile. "Mind you, it could just be us getting older, rather than them getting younger."

"Speak for yourself!" Lucas laughed. It was hollow, but a laugh all the same. "Seriously though, Harry, he's just a stupid, naïve kid who got in way out of his depth. Prison will kill him; going undercover will probably do the same. But that's the choice he has."

Harry leaned back against the wall, his face half-buried in his hands. He was thinking things through, weighing up the options. So, Lucas left him to it while he went to glance over the empty Grid. His earlier assessment had been incorrect: Ros was still there, with her jacket on but still sat at her station. When she saw him, her face lit up and she came dashing across the Grid towards them. Lucas held the door open for her, but she didn't come into the passageway that led to the interview suite. She stopped and leaned against the doorway and addressed them both.

"Listen, that boy tried to stop me earlier today," she said, looking at Harry. "You remember? The one I said I accidentally closed the door on."

Harry frowned, strode over to them. "Are you sure?"

Ros nodded. "Positive. He is uniquely skinny and scruffy. Definitely him. He might have been trying to give himself up."

"We better get back in there," Lucas said. But, before he left, he turned back to Ros and waited until Harry had gone inside again. Once he had, he looked Lucas closed in on Ros. "Can you go back to mine?" he asked, sotto voce. "I don't think I want to be alone after this."

Immediately, her expression registered her concern. "Lucas," she whispered, her gaze meeting his. "What's wrong?"

He shook his head. "It's just, you know, heavier than expected."

Ros brought her hand to his face, cupping his cheek gently. "Are you okay? Do you want me to take your place?"

"No," he replied, adamantly. "No, I'm fine; he just reminds me of someone I once knew. But if I knew you were waiting back at the house for me, it'd make it so much better."

Ros' lips curled into a smile. A rare natural smile. "Don't forget Starsky, too."

They both laughed. "How could I forget him?"

Stealing a kiss, they both went their separate ways: Ros to the pods and Lucas to the interview suite.

Once inside again, Lucas got settled back into his seat. Leon seemed to have composed himself again, but had taken to gnawing nervously at the rim of his cup. He had shredding the top of it like Starsky shredded his unwanted lettuce leaves. Harry was watching him in exasperation. The Section Head checked the Dictaphone and recommenced the interview.

"Where were you at roughly two o'clock this afternoon, Leon?"

He put down the shredded cup, thinking about it. "I think I might have been just outside this place."

"We know you were," Harry replied. "Another Agent just confirmed it. What did you want?"

"Mrs Adams told me to come here and ask for Lady Lazarus," he said. "I didn't know who that was, and I didn't know how to get inside. I tried to ask a lady who I saw coming in, but she'd already got inside before I caught her up. I didn't want to get in anymore trouble."

When he mentioned the name "Lady Lazarus" both Harry and Lucas exchanged a loaded look. They both knew her as Ruth Evershed; it was not a name Leon could have plucked out of thin air. It was Lucile who turned the boy, lending more weight to the story he gave about trying to rescue Lucile at the last minute. Once more, Lucile had delivered the goods from beyond the grave: a prize asset.

"So," said Harry. "You want to work with us to bring Black Flag down now?"

Leon nodded. "Yes, sir."

Lucas breathed an inward sigh of relief before turning to the business end. "You'll be wanting something in return, no doubt?"

Enough cash to sink the economy of a small island, a yacht and round the world tickets to go with immunity from prosecution for life. That was the way it usually went. But Leon merely cast his forlorn gaze downwards and said just one word that made even Harry soften like butter in the sun:

"Forgiveness."

* * *

**Thanks again for reading, reviews would be lovely if you have a minute.**


	12. Squatter's Rights

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot.**

* * *

**Chapter Twelve: Squatter's Rights**

Lucas and Ros watched Malcolm expectantly from across the kitchen table. In the middle of them, Starsky the rabbit nibbled at a raw carrot, blissfully unaware of his increasingly important role in the espionage world. His caramel ears were flat against his back as he took to sniffing the surface of the table. Meanwhile, Malcolm was regarding the creature coolly, stroking his chin thoughtfully. A broad morning sunshine was streaming through the open windows, bathing the scene in a dazzling light. Ros got up and lowered the blinds, before returning to her place.

"Well then?" she asked Malcolm.

"Hmmm," the techie replied, still rubbing his chin.

After another second, he stopped and pointed at the rabbit. He looked as if he was going to say something, but then stopped. Lucas and Ros sank back in their chairs in unison.

"There must be something, Malcolm," said Lucas.

Malcolm sighed heavily. "What I know I can do, is chip him with a tracker. It'd go under the skin, like a normal pet chip, except this one will give us his precise location. Very useful things to have, even if you're not using him in an undercover Op. As for getting a fibre optic camera on him, I would say nigh on impossible. Even the smallest would be a nibble hazard."

Lucas leaned forwards, slumping down in defeat. Malcolm looked at him apologetically. But the older man was still thinking. He got up from his seat and inspected the rabbit's hutch carefully. He ran his fingers along the rough wooden edge, feeling into the corners and crevices. Even going so far as to start pushing aside the wood shavings with the plastic scoop. All the while, he was frowning and muttering incomprehensibly under his breath. The other two tried to keep track of him, second guessing which path he was winding them down now. After what seemed an age, he turned to look at them from where he was crouched in front of the hutch.

"Now this is different," he said, happily. "Listening devices can be threaded into the latch inside the door of the concealed section." Malcolm gestured to the wooden door behind which Starsky slept, before moving on to the mesh fronted 'play area' of the hutch. "In here, you can have a camera concealed inside one of his toys, or up in the far corner. Even behind the mirror he has dangling off the top. I'd have to get two way glass for it, but it's possible. Then the hutch would need to put somewhere prominent, but can be easily explained."

"Can you do it quickly?" asked Ros, wide eyed and on her feet. "Now we have an Asset inside Black Flag, we're moving fast."

Malcolm was already unhooking the toy mirror. Its purpose was actually to dupe the rabbit into thinking he had company in his lonely hutch, now they were about to add another layer to the subterfuge.

"When we put it back," he said. "Fix it to the back bars, so it's not spinning around."

"Can we get the listening bugs in there as well?" asked Lucas. "Somewhere he can't eat them."

"Easy," replied Malcolm. "I'm afraid the idea of bugging your own pet rabbit directly was a little too maverick, even for MI5, Lucas."

"But we got there in the end," Ros put in. "Thanks Malcolm."

"Yes, thanks Malcolm," Lucas chorused Ros' gratitude for the older man's ingenuity.

Lucas made them all tea, while Malcolm got settled back at the kitchen table. Ros cradled the rabbit in her arms, running her fingers the length of his ears. Malcolm still looked dubious. He hadn't been at that morning's meeting when Lucas discussed the plan with them.

"They're not coming here, are they?"

"Ruth's sorting me out with a squat," Lucas replied, leaning against the counter and waiting for the kettle to boil. "Well, she's sorting me out with something that will pass for a squat. It'll double up as my HQ. Once I'm in there, our Asset's going to organise meetings between me and Black Flag. And while they're there, I want to get lots of footage of them."

"Then they need to be rounded up," Ros added as she put Starsky back in his hutch. "Any ideas for that?"

Lucas turned his attention to making the tea. "Leon's already suggested joint action. He's going to run it past Emma Richards tomorrow morning. I'm listening in. But before that, Harry's helping me out with something."

"Oh really," said Malcolm. "What's that?"

Lucas grinned as he filled the tea pot and carried it over to the table. The next stage of his cover was the one he had been anticipating most keenly. "We're blowing the shit out of an abandoned warehouse somewhere down the Estuary. Controlled explosion, of course, but enough to make it look like a real hit. My legend's taking the blame. It'll be leaked to the press and uploaded onto my website."

"We're putting it out there that a pharmaceutical company owns the building and it's packed with stored testing equipment," Ros explained. "After that, Lucas and Leon will pull off a staged arms deal between Black Flag and Lucas' Bovine Warrior, and we'll finally have the bastards."

Lucas rolled his eyes. "Will you stop calling me that? I'm the "Rat Catcher" now."

"And that's so much better, isn't it? Anyway, speaking of the little toe-rag, where is he now?"

Knowing she meant Leon, Lucas sighed heavily. "He's at home, confessing all to his Dad."

Ros, looking at Lucas from over the rim of her tea cup, winced visibly. Malcolm drew a deep breath and exhaled in a sigh. "That won't be easy," he said, classically understating the task.

"I know he's an absurd little shit," Ros ceded, magnanimously. "But do you think one of us ought to go over there just to make sure things don't get out of hand?"

By 'one of us' Lucas correctly guessed she actually meant him. "Ah, don't worry. I'm meeting him at three this afternoon, anyway. He'll be okay."

* * *

Shouting was one thing. It was a reaction. Swift and uncompromising; it didn't keep anyone waiting. The stunned silence with which David Shelley reacted to his son's confession was something else. It was like someone had pressed a pause button, throwing them into a state of suspended animation as it all processed. Leon stood with his back pressed to the office door; his father perched on the edge of his desk, the two of them looked one another in the eye. The smile on his father's face frozen into a rictus grin, suspecting it was all just one bad joke.

When the hoped for punchline didn't arrive, his eyes narrowed on the boy. "You were camping with friends from school…"

David's words trailed off, melting back into the stilted silence. Leon shook his head, seemingly unable to speak anymore. His father removed his jacket, dropping it onto the desk.

"I still don't understand," he began again. "You stole information – classified information – from me, so you and your grubby little friends could launch attack on the state that has resulted in two deaths? The girl in the bunker, our Sinead?"

"All of it," Leon finally replied. There was no way to dress it up, so he didn't bother.

His father's face contorted, as though he were trying to say and do several things at once. He pushed himself up from the desk and buried his face in his hands, pacing forwards and then back again. Forcing himself to stop, he turned his back on his son and drew a deep, steadying breath as he tried to marshal his own thoughts. But only one word kept coming up again and again.

"Why?"

To get the answer, he turned to face Leon and slowly paced over to him. The closer he got, the further against the wall Leon tried to push himself. In the light office, his father's shadow fell over him, blocking the sunlight that filtered through the blinds. It was just the two of them, the rest of the room seeming to melt away. David Shelley didn't seem angry, just bewildered.

"Why?" he repeated.

Leon trembled as he tried to form an answer. "Because I…" he began, lamely.

The blow caught him squarely across the cheek bone. He didn't see it coming, he didn't have time to react or prepare. The open palm of his father's right hand, connected with the same spot a second time, knocking Leon sideways. With a yelp of pain, he hit the bookshelf, making it jar against the wall and sending loose books crashing down almost on top of him. Pain blazed across that whole side of his face. His knees joining the party as they hit the carpeted floor, sending sharp pain shooting up his thigh.

"Oh, get up!"

His father was standing over him, nursing the hand he'd just hit him with. Leon responded by curling up on the floor, just as his father bent down and grabbed a fistful of his hair.

"I said, get up!"

The pain made him gasp, but Leon managed to scrabble unsteadily to his feet before he was scalped. The sudden explosion of anger had left his father breathless, panting and red faced as he pinned Leon to the door by his throat, awkwardly lifting him off his feet. Unable to breathe, much less talk, he tried to prise his father's fingers away and kick out with his feet. But David held him fast, beyond speech now, studying him intently. Leon's vision swam as his eyes watered, now dizzy and choking desperately.

"Look at me!"

Too weak to struggle, Leon complied. He kept his hands over his father's, limply attempting to free himself. But he managed to return his father's look, their gaze locking into each other. His father wanted to watch him die, he wanted to see the light in his son's eyes being slowly extinguished. If David Shelley wanted his son to beg for his life, he was about to be disappointed. Leon steeled himself as best he could, but his lungs were on fire and his whole body felt like a lead weight, fast getting heavier. Blood rushed to his head, he could hear pounding in his ears, but he kept his gaze locked into his father's as he began to lose his grip on consciousness.

Then it stopped. Leon hit the floor, gasping for breath in a heap, coughing and choking. He could taste blood at the back of his throat, could just hear the sound of his father's footsteps walking away to the other end of the room. Desk drawers were opened, rummaged through as his father searched for something. Once he had what he was looking for – something Leon couldn't make out from where he managed to get upright again – he came back.

"Out," he said.

Too slow to respond, Leon was half-dragged out of the study and as good as thrown down the stairs. His father came up behind him, giving him another good shove every time he drew level with his son. Leon wasn't even trying to guess where all this was leading; all his efforts were focused on staying upright and placing one foot in front of the other. But they reached the front door. Without saying a word, David took his son's coat from the stand in the living room and threw it at him. Then, he pressed cash into his hands and opened the door.

"Go," he said. "Now. Don't ever come back."

Dazed, Leon was once again too slow. His father moved quickly, clutching Leon by the scruff of his neck and shoving him forcefully through the door and down the garden steps. Belly flopping on to the concrete path, Leon sprawled out uncontrollably, scraping his knees and elbows as he attempted to break his fall. Behind him, the front door slammed shut. Alone, in pain and now disowned, Leon remained there with his face buried in his arms and sniffed away the tears that were threatening once more.

He stayed there. He stayed there for far longer than he deemed wise. It was cold, and getting colder. People were walking past, he could sense them looking at him, staring openly. But he still didn't move. Not until someone walked past, stopped and wandered up the garden path. Heavy footfalls that stopped right by his head. When Leon opened his eyes, a pair of dark, leather shoes, Italian made, came into immediate view. Slowly, stiffly, he raised his head; taking in the newcomer's legs, clad in smart jeans, then the body until he reached the face of Lucas North, his new MI5 handler.

Lucas regarded him wryly. "That went well, then?"

A hand extended downwards, towards his face. Tentatively, Leon reached out for it and allowed himself to be hauled upwards. After a moment spent swaying dangerously on the spot, Leon managed to get his head to stop spinning. Aware of something in his hands, he opened his palm to find fifty pounds that his father had given to him: severance pay, perhaps?

"He's thrown me out," Leon explained, voice hoarse after being half choked to death.

Lucas sighed heavily. "Come on, then. Follow me."

At a loss for what else to do, Leon had no choice but to comply. But as he went, he paused at the garden gate and looked back over his shoulder. The net curtain over the landing window twitched, the pallid face of his father retreated out of view. Despondent, Leon turned back towards Lucas, who was waiting by his car patiently.

* * *

Isolated and conveniently due for demolition anyway, the warehouse was perfect. Harry joined the explosives experts milling around outside, checking the buildings structure. It was still sound, like something that could still be in use. The windows, what few there were, still intact, but it was the recently added Pharmaceutical company sign and logo on the front that provided the finishing touches. They needed to make the controlled demolition look like a full on attack.

The road passing by was already cordoned off, making the area safe, but white and black cables ran the perimeter of the building, the only sign it was due to be blasted. Harry nudged them with the toe of his shoe, where they ran across the bare dirt track that led to the front entrance. He would have to ensure those were not in shot when they filmed it. Satisfied that everything was going to plan, he fished in his jacket pocket for his phone and dialled Ruth's number.

"Hello there," he greeted her answer. "How's the house hunting going?"

* * *

"Wonderfully," replied Ruth, glancing round at the dry rot that threatened to bring the whole place down around her ears.

She glanced warily up the bare wooden stairs, but it was too gloomy too see what awaited her on the first floor landing. The air was dank and dusty, showing its age and creaking ominously with every footfall. The hallway was papered in peeling, nicotine stained white paper. An old mat, silver with snail trails and mould, covered a patch of the old tiled floor, releasing its own special odour as she passed it.

"You know, Harry," she said, "the sad thing is that this is a perfectly habitable house if only someone spent the money on it."

It was a developer's wet dream. For all its faults it was spacious, with several eye-catching character features; high ceilings and a grand, antique fire place. If it wasn't being used in an Op, she would be tempted to kneel on Harry's chest and wrench his arms out of their sockets until he agreed to take it on with her. Alas, Harry's extremities were safe and Lucas was due to move in and pleas squatter's rights at any moment.

"That's good," replied Harry from the opposite end of the line. "Because Lucas is on his way now-"

"What? Wait!" she retorted, eyes widening in alarm. "He's coming now?"

If he was, he batter have his apron handy. She couldn't make this place relatively habitable any time soon.

"Yes, and he's got Shelley Junior with him," explained Harry. "All did not go well this morning and it seems it's needed."

"Oh, fantastic," Ruth groaned. "Well, you'll just have to get the maintenance team down here; I can't do it alone."

"No one's asking you to do anything alone," he replied, sounding impatient. "Just wait until Lucas gets there, then come down here for the fireworks. Bring him and the boy with you. We need him."

Ruth wrinkled her nose. "Really, Harry? What will that little toad bring to proceedings?"

"Ruth, we need him," Harry insisted. "Bring them both."

"If you insist," she ceded, before bidding him farewell.

After one final glance round the gloomy hallway, Ruth let herself into the living room and wished Lucas would get a move on. Just as she began to relax, her phone rang again. Expecting it to be either Harry again, or Lucas, she stared at the device in wonder as David Shelley's name flashed up on the screen.

* * *

TCP, cotton wool and cloths. Lucas ticked them off as he picked each item off the chemist's shelves and paid for them at the counter. Leon was still bleeding and he wanted that dealt with before they moved to the next stage. He returned to the car with his purchases in a paper bag, wedged under his arm as he climbed back into the driver's seat. Just north of London, it was quieter here, with less cars and fewer pedestrians during office hours. There were pleasant parklands to the left, but all they could see of it were the over-hanging tree branches that needed cutting back. However, it looked as good a place as any.

"Come on," said Lucas. "We can go in there."

Leon followed him into the park, where they sat on a bench near a polluted duck pond that hadn't seen any actual ducks in years. A thick layer of poisonous green algae bobbed on the restless surface. Leon watches as it, as though transfixed, even as he removed his jacket so Lucas could tend to the cuts he'd sustained.

"He'll calm down, you know," Lucas remarked as he dabbed cotton wool into the anti-sceptic.

Leon kept his eyes fixed listlessly on the pond. "You really think so?"

He sounded far from convinced.

"All is not lost. People have done far worse than you and gone on to lead perfectly productive lives," said Lucas.

He dabbed at the raw, open skin delicately. But Leon still flinched against the sharp sting. "I find that hard to believe."

"Try to hold still," Lucas advised as he continued to tend the cuts and gravel burn. "Everything depends on what you do next, that's all. Speaking of which, you have to see Emma again in the morning. How do you feel about it?"

Leon shrugged, causing Lucas to smear anti-sceptic down his elbow. "Should I tell her what my Dad did?"

Lucas thought about it for a moment. "She's bound to ask why your face is all bruised. But think of a cover story and stick to it: something close to the truth."

"Something like, he suspects I took the documents from his office?" asked Leon, finally turning to look at Lucas.

Lucas raised a small smile. "Yes. Naturally, you bravely held out against the violent onslaught and didn't say a word. Play the bitch as sweetly as she played you. People like her…" His sentence trailed off as he thought about people like her. He knew one once, a long time ago and he could no longer bring himself to think the man's name, let alone say it. But he was out there still, somewhere in the big ugly world they inhabit. Lucas couldn't help but wonder where, or who he was conning now. He didn't really care, so long as it wasn't him.

"I know what she's done; I know she's played me like a fiddle."

Lucas didn't realise Leon was even looking at him. Pulled out of his private reverie, he resumed tending the teen's open cuts.

"I'm not saying this to rub your nose in it," he explained. "You've nothing to be ashamed of. You're the victim; you weren't to know. Even so, you're making amends now; in the best way possible."

Leon laughed. "How can you say that? You're … well, you'd never let someone do that to you. Not in your, er, line of work."

_How wrong you are_, Lucas thought wryly to himself. "Don't be so quick to assume," he cautioned. "We all make mistakes. Even people in my, er, line of work."

"But no one died because of your mistakes," Leon said, his gaze cast down and crestfallen. "That's the difference between you and I."

Seventeen dead, Lucas thought. Eighteen, including that other... But he had been in the service, performing his own silent penance for almost fifteen years; eight years spent receiving the punishment he knew he richly deserved inside a hellish Russian prison. It was how he survived, because he knew he deserved no less. Was his debt paid? He would never know; he just had to keep on working towards that ultimate goal.

Lucas hurried the last dabs of the TCP in order to pick up his phone and allay Ruth's fears of running late. The squat would have to wait, they had stuff to blow up.

"Leon, we need to go now," said Lucas, packing everything up and binning it. "We have a warehouse to bomb."

Leon looked like he'd been slapped again. "What?"

"It's okay, it's all been organised. But hurry, we're needed and I've got to collect a colleague first. We all want to see it."

Lucas was already on his way, and Leon had to jog to catch him up. "Do you people do this sort of thing often?"

Lucas slowed down, giving him a chance to catch up. The bruising around Leon's throat was starting to become more visible, deepening from the livid red to a pale purple. It would be worse come the morning.

"Only at the weekends, honestly," he replied.

The pair of them fell into step as they left the park, walking side by side as their chatter fell into small talk. The afternoon was wearing on; soon the school run would start and the offices would begin to empty. They could lose themselves in the crowds later on, but they had a warehouse to blow up before that.

* * *

Thanks again for reading, reviews would be welcome if you have a minute.


	13. Ghosts

Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you.

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen: History**

It was cold and dark inside the warehouse. The only natural light was that which slanted through high windows; long, thin diagonal slants that fell on empty crates of animal testing equipment. Leon didn't know where they had come from; he'd never heard of the company, but he was sure they were fake too. He disregarded them and pointed the camera he was holding at Lucas, zooming in on his hands as he primed the very real explosives that had been wired up to the high roof beams of the warehouse. Slowly, he tracked the length of the cables, following them as they spiralled up a support pillar, to where they were wound round a crossbeam, where the plastic explosive was nestled in the corner. Zooming in on the bomb as much as far as he could, he let the lens linger there for a few seconds. The device was so small, Leon wondered whether it would even be enough to bring the roof down.

To his left, Lucas was tapping at an old laptop that had been retrieved from the bowels of Thames House. Obsolete, unwanted, no one would miss it once it had been blasted, along with the rest of the warehouse. The floor was damp, the concrete long eroded by the intrusive river waters that now seeped in through the holes in the foundations. It was easy to see why the structure had been condemned; even the rats had abandoned it. The walls were stained were rust from unseen pipes bled down the inside walls, scenting the air with a tang of old steel and dust.

"Okay," said Lucas.

Keeping the camera focused on the wiring, Leon turned to the other man. "Is it done?"

"Not quite. But stop filming and get ready to run."

Lucas remained focused on the laptop screen. Leon knew it was somehow connected up to the small device on the roof beam, so packed away the camera as requested. At the same time, Lucas carefully placed the laptop down on the ground. Once it was secured he took the camera bag from Leon and slung it over his shoulder. For a moment, their gaze met through the dimly lit space.

"Ready then?" asked Lucas. "You know where you're going? Straight out the door and straight ahead. No stopping until we reach the others."

Leon nodded and Lucas responded by nudging the space bar of the laptop with the toe of his shoe. Half a second later, the digital clock face lit up from the crossbeam overhead. Leon glanced upwards at it, counting down two minutes exactly. After just enough time to be certain that all was as it should be, the two of them bolted for the door. It had become so flimsy it fell clean off its hinges as Lucas and Leon simultaneously kicked it open. They burst into the open, squinting against the brightness even though the sun had begun to set.

After days of moribund self-loathing, Leon was suddenly shaken back into the land of the living as nervous excitement coursed through him the moment his feet hit the beaten earth track. He could just see the others, well away from the detonation site behind a hastily erected Perspex wall. But when he glanced over his shoulder to make sure Lucas was close behind, he couldn't see the man anywhere. Panicked, Leon crashed to a halt, falling flat on his face in the process. Without turning a hair, he scrambled back to his feet and hurtled back towards the warehouse. Lucas had fallen, the camera bag had snagged on a jutting piece of the doorframe and tripped him, somehow the strap had gotten tangled round his ankle.

"Leon go!" Lucas urged him, pulling his ankle free of the tangled shoulder strap. "Just run."

He pulled himself free, but lost his shoe in the process.

"I couldn't just leave you!" Leon retorted, wrapping the still snagged shoulder strap round his wrist.

Once it was secure, he pulled with all his might, freeing it and bringing a rotten section of the doorframe with it. With no time to disentangle it properly, he grabbed a hold of Lucas' wrist and hauled him up. Together, propping each other up they ran together in a three legged race to the others. Leon dragged the camera case behind him as they sprinted as hard as they could down the dirt track, sending up a dust cloud in their wake. But Lucas was in difficulty because of his ankle, the clock was closing in on their two minute's grace and the detonation due any second.

"Shit, shit, shit…" Lucas cursed fluidly into the slipstream.

Flustered, with his heart feeling like it was beating its way out of his chest, Leon acted on raw instinct alone. He shoved Lucas hard to the side, down a steep grass bank into the river itself, before dropping the camera case and hurling himself down after the Spook. They landed in the freezing, murky waters with a loud splash that was soon drowned out by the sound of the thunderous explosion a few feet away. Leon and Lucas clung to each other, pushing themselves into the steep bank as loose bricks and detritus from the warehouse was blasted all around them. Leon could only liken the sound of the falling bricks to a herd of horse's hooves pounding the hard, dry earth above them. It could only have lasted for a half a minute, but to Leon it seemed to take an age for the deadly storm of masonry and wood to end. Some of it crashed into the water, directly in front of them, but most mercifully hit the ground before sliding harmlessly down the banks, only to plop into the water; causing them a splash at most.

By the time it was over, the two of them were up to their necks in the river and had to claw their way up the bank soaking wet. They could only manage it by gripping tufts of weeds that were growing from the banks and dragging themselves upwards, back to dry land. Lucas managed it first, and he stopped to help Leon up too. Once they were both safely back on the bank, they collapsed on the sloping earth and took a minute to get their breath back. Dirt and loose gravel clung to their wet clothes and there was no sign of Lucas' lost shoe anywhere. His sock was stained black with dirt and now exposing his bare toes.

"Sweet Jesus!" Lucas gasped, looking up at the sky. "That's one to tell the Grandkids."

Despite everything that had just happened, Leon laughed. It hurt his ribs, his throat, knees and his elbows to do so, but he laughed all the same.

The air was still thick with dust by the time they re-emerged over the river bank. What was once a warehouse was now just a pile of rubble. It looked, to Leon, like a giant had come along and just stamped on the building, like a person steps on a snail and leaves a mangled wreckage. There was still a support pillar, now jutting from the ground like a broken tooth, standing in the middle of the rubble. But everything else had been levelled. Before Leon had much time to look, however, Lucas had thrown a protective arm round his shoulder and began steering him back towards the others. Harry Pearce was already rushing over to them, with Jo Portman and Ben Kaplan bringing up the rear. Only Ruth hadn't been able to make it. Those that had were now frantic.

"What the bloody hell just happened?" Harry Pearce, wide eyed and ghost white with fear, demanded of Lucas.

Lucas peeled off from Leon to go and explain everything, leaving the teen on his own. A moment Leon took to get his scattering wits back and process his day so far: he had been made homeless, beaten up and then blown up. He doubled over, hands resting on his knees and grinned, despite it all.

* * *

Still dripping wet, with one missing shoe, Lucas drove cautiously back towards Thames House. Harry was in the passenger of the car, still shaking and grey in the face after their near miss. Lucas could still feel loose grit from the river waters scratching against his skin, beneath the sopping shirt he wore. It was grating on his nerves as much as it irritated his skin. But he couldn't fault Leon; they would both have been blasted back to Thames House in bits if he hadn't have shoved him out of the way at the last minute. For all that, Leon was sat in the back looking thoroughly fed up. The bruising round his throat now looked even more livid against his cold, wet skin.

"I'm afraid you ruined Malcolm's shot," said Harry, as Lucas pulled over onto Milbank.

"Sorry about that," Lucas replied, flatly.

But when he glanced over at Harry, he was smirking. "He'll get over it."

Malcolm was also filming from afar, hoping to get some footage to leak to the news outlets. But now every frame he had had Leon and Lucas charging over the scene like a pair of misguided missiles before leaping into the river. Most important, however, was their footage of the bomb being set up and that was safely locked away in the boot of Lucas' car.

"Now that's interesting," said Harry, glancing over to the pavement outside Thames House.

Lucas parked up and turned to see what Harry was looking at. Ruth was some way off, with a bag over her shoulder and bidding farewell to David Shelley. Sensing that it was far too soon for father and son to be accidentally reunited, Lucas turned to instruct Leon to remain inside the car. But it was too late, he'd already seen his father and was getting out of the car. Lucas followed, sticking close to Leon as father and son looked at each other. From a distance of at least ten feet, nothing was said. Their gaze met, but David Shelley turned and walked away, back to his own car that was parked up a side street.

"Go sit in the car," Lucas urged him, gently. "You're soaked; you can't be out here."

For a long moment, Leon carried on watching as his father walked away. Eventually, however, he nodded and did as he was told. The arrival of David Shelley, so soon after Leon had begun to settle, had irritated Lucas. He strode over to where Ruth and Harry were chatting by the door, ignoring the amused look of a passer-by who smirked at the state he was in.

"What did he want?" he demanded, turning to Ruth.

Ruth's eyes widened in surprise as she took in his appearance, her gaze wandering the full length of him. Evidently, his dishevelled state rendered her speechless.

"He wants a meeting," Harry replied for her. "I told him to come back tomorrow morning. It's nothing we can't handle, Lucas. Carry on as normal; get him back with Black Flag and you and Ros will be listening in, as planned."

There was more to it than that, Lucas could tell by the way Ruth shifted one foot to the other. Her gaze was cast down, like she didn't trust herself to speak. Still irritated, but also soaking wet and attracting stares aplenty, Lucas let the matter drop.

"Leon's Dad also dropped this off for him," said Ruth, handing Lucas the sports bag she had over her shoulder. "Spare clothes, luckily."

Lucas smirked and accepted the bag. "Thanks Ruth. Well, I'll see you both in the morning."

* * *

They convened in Harry's office, the following morning. Ruth and Harry sat side by side, while the Secretary of State took up at the opposite side of the desk. David Shelley looked agitated; he sat with legs crossed and nervously fumbled with the knot of his tie, even though it was already straight, from what Ruth could see. When she glanced over at Harry, she could tell by the look on his face that he was barely keeping his irritation contained. He had a file on his desk, face down so the name on it was not visible. But Ruth already knew whose it was; she had fetched it out of the archive herself.

Harry leaned forwards, hands folded neatly on the desk in front of him and fixed Shelley with a hard look. "You want to turn your son in to the police, is that it?"

Shelley frowned. "Of course I don't 'want' to; I have to."

"The thing is, Mr. Shelley, as I explained yesterday-" Ruth began, only for their guest to cut her off.

"I heard you," he assured her. "But as I told you yesterday, as a Member of Parliament, I am part of the body that makes the laws. If I make an exemption for my own son, how do you think it will look?"

"This isn't a bloody PR exercise!" Harry retorted. "Can't you just get one of your personal army of spin doctors to put it out there that Leon wasn't consorting with criminals, but that he'd merely found an alternative definition of the words 'classified information'? If past form is anything to go by, you'll even start to believe it yourself by the end of next week!"

Ruth disguised her chuckle as a cough, then discreetly reached over Harry to retrieve the file on his desk. When she glanced back up at David Shelley, she could see that he had taken the jibe with good grace.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Shelley, our operation comes first, and your son's continued cooperation is essential to our success," Ruth explained, taking the more diplomatic route. Harry glared at her, as though disappointed she wasn't joining the pile on; but that was what Ros was for. "If you shop your son to the Police now, it could ruin everything and we would lose our only way in to a group of dangerous individuals."

"Look, it's not that I take any great delight in sacrificing my only child at the altar of high politics," Shelley stated. Just for a moment, Ruth saw the flash of pain in the other man's eyes. Fleeting, though it was, and for a moment, she felt sorry for him. He was broken, disjointed and fumbling for the way ahead; not certain of which way to turn. "But he's ruined so much," Shelley continued. "I can't let him ruin my career and reputation as well."

Even Harry now softened towards the man. "Yes, but we cannot put your reputation or career above the Op," he tried to explain once more. "Please, can we leave what happens next until after we have used your son to bring down the whole of Black Flag?"

Harry and Shelley looked each other square in the eye. Ruth looked on, trying to guess what both were thinking. But, as the silence began to thicken, she opened the file on her knee and leafed through the first few pages. She selected the photograph she wanted, one taken a long time ago, and laid it down on the desk for both men to see.

* * *

Leon drew a deep, steadying breath before ringing Emma's bell. Someway off behind him, a Virgin Media van drew level with the pavement. He glanced over his shoulder, but only to make sure they were parked. Inside of it, MI5 had set up an array of listening equipment which would pick up every word he and Emma spoke via the mic that had been threaded through the hem of his jacket the night before.

When she answered the door, a number of expressions crossed her face. Anger at having been completely out of contact for the last three days, then horror when she saw the bruising down his face and throat. She threw the door open and almost dragged him inside with barely a word of greeting. Once she nudged the front door closed, she pulled him into the hallway and cupped his face in her hands.

"Lee!" she gasped, frowning. "Jesus, Lee, what happened to your face?"

He tried to pull away, but she held him fast. Then with one hand, she pushed back his hair, checking for further damage.

"My Dad found out I lied about where I was that night," he said. "He went crazy."

"That was it?" she asked, horrified. "That's all that happened to set him off?"

Leon let tears well in his eyes, summoning his best hang-dog expression in the process and managed a stiff nod. "He threw me out of the house," he whimpered, going all out to win her sympathy.

"Good!" she retorted, angrily. "You can't leave with an abusive control freak like that, Leon. Move in with me."

"Oh, it's okay," he replied. "I'm staying with a friend for now-"

"What friend?" she demanded, suspiciously. "Do I know him?"

There was a flash of anger in her eyes, just enough to snap Leon out of his exaggerated distress. At a loss as to why she would be even remotely angry about his having a friend she didn't know about.

"No," he admitted. "But you will know him and I think you'll like him. A lot."

Emma didn't reply. She led the way into the kitchen and started boiling the kettle. While she was distracted with that, Leon took out his iPad. It was a clean one Lucas had provided him with the day before. Tapping into the video files stored on there, he opened up the explosion video and held it out to Emma, grinning.

"Here," he said, eagerly. "Watch what we did yesterday."

Curious, but not especially enthusiastic, Emma took the iPad from him and tapped the play button.

* * *

David Shelley looked from the photograph on the table, back to Ruth. The smile had frozen on his lips and his eyes hardened. "I assume, Miss Evershed, that you're showing me this for a reason?"

It was a black and white photograph, showing a young David Shelley and some accomplices taunting a row of policemen, bricks in hand. One or two had a scarf round their faces, but Shelley – like his son – lacked the coy camera shyness the others possessed. All around them, detritus and refuse littered the background scenery, streets of terraced houses in a small town up north. It was the height of the Miner's Strike, when tensions were running at their highest and civil disruption boiled over into violence at the drop of a hat.

"Well, it's not just Leon that's been caught up in a moment of high idealism, is it?" she asked, glancing down at the picture.

"But I didn't kill anyone," he retorted.

"You look as though you're out to do some serious damage though," Harry offered his own interpretation of the scene. "Throwing heavy objects around like that, you could have."

Shelley rolled his eyes. "That was completely different to Leon's absurd flights of fancy. Our livelihoods were at stake; our way of life. Our communities were being destroyed by Thatcherism."

Ruth laid out some more photographs, showing crowds of protesters raining bricks and Molotovs down on advancing, mounted policemen. One showed a protester with serious head injuries after being baton charged; the injured and bleeding lay like broken dolls on the side lines. Once more, a youthful Shelley was leading the rioters on. When Ruth glanced back up at David, he was looking over the snapshots of his personal history with an almost misty-eyed sadness. Like he knew some vital part of what made him the man he is had been chipped away forever, once he had fought those heady days and lost.

"Of course we see the differences," Harry stated. "But please don't pretend you've never been above flouting the law and resorting to out and out violence when it suited you."

He was no older than Leon in those pictures. The only difference was that one of them had something real to fight for; something tangible. Leon had all the same passion and idealism, but nowhere to put it; not in this age of passive complacency.

"The Police fell on us like rabid, starving dogs," Shelley stated, voice distant. "But I think you'll find that I am not the only member of this Government who was present at those protests and strikes."

"We know that, but you're the only one threatening to blow our Op," Harry pointed out. "You hold back, and we'll keep a lid on your ghosts. How about that?"

Shelley sat back in his seat, agitated once more. "That's not really a question, is it?"

Harry and Ruth smiled back at him, beatifically.

* * *

Leon watched Emma's reactions carefully. It was hard to tell if she was impressed or not. But she was watching the video of their "attack" with acute interest. She didn't lift her gaze from the screen at all.

"There was someone else Liam knows filming from a distance," explained Leon, referring to Malcolm's clip of the explosion that had been tacked on at the end of his filming.

"Bloody hell, Lee," she gasped. "And you know Liam well? How come you've never introduced us before?"

Leon already had the back story memorised. "I only met him recently, to be honest," he explained. "After he set up this website. I didn't want to waste your time if it turned out he wasn't the real deal."

That seemed to satisfy her. She watched the clip of the explosion again.

"When can you introduce us?" she asked.

"Tomorrow, if you're free," he answered. "We've got a squat in South London. Come round sometime before four in the afternoon."

Emma let one finger rest on the screen, pointing to the media player's window. "And he's going to supply us with explosives?"

Leon nodded. "Yes. However much you want, Liam can get it for you."

She was seriously thinking about it. He could almost hear her weighing up the pros and cons; imagining what they could do if they had proper explosives. The days of breaking up match heads were finally over, as far as she was concerned. Only after a few minutes of pondering did doubt cloud her eyes. "He'll be looking for a fortune, I bet?"

"That's the thing," Leon said. "If we work together, he will supply the materials for free. I mean, why not, we'll all be working together anyway. Why not pool resources?"

To bolster her confidence further, Leon showed her Lucas' fake website. Together, they scrolled through the video footage of the lab break in, pausing to watch the clips. "He rescued one of the rabbits and keeps it in his squat," Leon pointed out. "Really, Emma, just come round."

She was smiling now, quite engrossed in the site. "Definitely," she replied.

Leon breathed deeply, relieved that he had finally got her on board. "It'll just be the three of us at first though. Leave the others out of it for now, just until you're confident that you like what you see."

Emma nodded. "Of course."

He shut down the iPad and slipped it back into his jacket pocket. Now that he had done what he came here to do, he knew he could start to wind things up. But there was one more thing he needed to do, before he could feel comfortable returning to MI5. He sat back, where they were now sat on the sofa in Emma's living room, and turned to face her pensively.

"Emma," he said, getting her attention. "I'm sorry I messed up last time."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

Leon shrugged. "You know, back in the bunker. I messed up and you had to … you know…"

Emma raised a pained smile. "You mean, when I had to shoot that woman in the bunker?"

Leon nodded, careful to keep his expression downcast. "That. Have you forgiven me?"

"There's nothing to forgive," she replied. "You let her get inside your head; that's what they do, Lee. But it's alright; I sorted it for you."

Leon smiled in return and held his arms out for a hug. A gesture Emma responded to with care, making sure she didn't hurt him, and held him close. Leon let her wrap her arms around him, holding him and stroking his hair. He even fell passive and silent as she kissed his forehead. With a heavy sigh, a closed his eyes and relaxed into her continuing embrace, letting her think that he needed to be held by her.

"Who was it?" he asked, at length. "Who was it that shot the Minister?"

"Why do you want to know that?" she asked.

She was curious, rather than suspicious, so Leon remained on the information trail. Lifting his head from her breast, he looked up at her in wide-eyed curiosity. "I just wondered," he replied, innocently – anything to avoid having to shag the information out of her. "I mean, whoever it was has already proved to be useful. Maybe they should be in on the explosives deal tomorrow?"

"I'll ask if he's available," Emma replied. "He's better with firearms, but he is co-leader of the group after all."

Leon sat back again. "Isn't that Theo Maitland?"

He had heard the name, but only ever dealt with Emma. It was their way of protecting themselves against informers; people like Leon himself. He didn't blush to think it.

"Yeah, that's him. He came back to London once it was done."

"Was he supposed to kill her?" he asked. "I mean, did you order it?"

"Of course," she answered, lightly. "I say 'co-leader', but I'm the one in charge here. I over-see everything."

All through the conversation Leon had to school his reactions carefully. Every small confession, every small piece of information that she offered up was a triumph. But it reached a stage, some time ago, where he simply had to pretend that he was not wired and that there was no one listening in. He pushed MI5 to the back of his mind with an ease that surprised him through the exertion of his self-defeatist pessimism. They're all asleep in that van, he told himself. The equipment's broken down and nothing is being relayed. His wire hadn't been calibrated properly. It'd be just his bloody luck. So he carried on the conversation as normal, until it came time to leave. They kissed each other goodbye on the doorstep, with the final promise of another meeting on the next day.

From there, Leon walked down the road without looking back. He walked past the Virgin Media van, right down to the bottom of Emma's street. The van didn't follow him and he didn't even look over his shoulder to check. It was another lovely, summer's day anyway; the air would be good for him. It was another mile before they did catch up. The van drew level with him, following like a corporate kerb crawler as he continued to meander down the road. They stopped at the same time and the back doors opened to let him back in. Lucas and Ros were waiting, grinning from ear to ear.

"Please tell me you got all that?" asked Leon, once inside.

"Every bit of it," Lucas confirmed.

Finally, something was going right.

* * *

**Thanks again for reading; reviews would be welcome.**


	14. Judas Kiss

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. I also want to thank my Guest reviewer, Lunadenata, for their kind words (I agree with what you said about social activism). But I must clarify, the opinions expressed in the story are the opinions I think the characters would have and they, in no way, shape, or form reflect my own opinions. Apologies if I've misunderstood, but an avid liberal - lefty like me would never deny anyone the right to protest.**

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen: Judas Kiss**

The only one of the three of them to find a moment's rest in the squat was Starsky the rabbit. He slept while sprawled out on Leon's chest, have relished the gentle rhythmic ear stroking the teen had been giving him. The late evening news played softly in the background, the television providing the only light as the ones overhead had packed in. Lucas glanced from the screen, to Leon. He looked perturbed still; troubling his lower lip with his teeth as he gazed vacantly at the television screen. Even when reports of their faked explosion came up at the head of the bulletin, he barely flickered. All the time, he cradled the rabbit and smoothed down the ears.

Hours earlier, Lucas had fallen on their takeaway pizzas like a ravenous Bear; Leon had merely picked at a bit of the crust before trying to feed the rest to Starsky. Extracting conversation from the teenager had been akin to drawing blood from a stone. Initially, he put it down to exhaustion and was about to send him up to what passed for a bed in their hovel, when the teen finally spoke.

"Did I get something wrong today?" he asked, brow furrowing.

He had been in with Emma that morning and wheedled a confession from her effortlessly, before setting her up for another great fall, due the next day. They even got the name of the assassin. Lucas cast his mind back over those events, running through it all once more and laughed.

"It honestly couldn't have gone any better."

Despite that reassurance, Leon still looked deeply troubled. "Then why do we still have to have this other meeting tomorrow? Emma admitted everything to me."

Lucas drew a deep breath. "She did, and that was great. But we need to get her caught in the act of arms dealing if we're to take out this whole organisation. All we have at the moment is an audio recording of her talking about the possibility of an arms deal, which in itself is not an act of terrorism."

He could see how it looked to an outsider, especially one that had gone undercover for the first nerve wracking time. But talk was cheap and perfectly legal. However, Lucas stole a glance at the rabbit hutch that had been placed on a reinforced shelf in the living room. It was afforded a view across the whole space, with tiny fibre-optic cameras threaded into the dark uppermost corners, with another concealed inside a toy mirror. A listening device had even been attached to the underside of the food bowl, with another for back up in the door of the hutch. The whole ensemble together would be controlled remotely by Malcolm and one of his techie underlings back at Thames House, with further support from a nearby observation van in which Ros, Jo and Ben would also be resident. To Lucas' immediate relief, however, Leon looked happier now that his understanding of how it would all come together had improved.

"Get some sleep," Lucas urged him. "Tomorrow's going to be a long day."

* * *

Ruth watched Harry's entrance onto the Grid that morning through narrowed eyes, but he didn't seem to notice her. He hung up his coat, went straight into the kitchenette and put the kettle on to boil. Her squinting eyes followed him until he was out of sight, but she could still hear him: the tap running, the kettle humming as it got to work, cupboard doors opening and, all the while, the jaunty whistling. Slowly, cautiously, she got up and followed him like a hunter tracking a boar. When she reached the kitchenette, she paused in the doorway and watched him for a moment.

"What's wrong with you?" she asked, tentatively.

He stopped, halfway through lifting two cups from the side and returned her look with a bright smile on his face. "Nothing!" he replied, then brandished the cups at her. "Tea?"

"Lovely. But why are you so bloody cheerful, it's not even half nine yet?"

He looked thoughtful as he waited for the kettle to boil. "I was thinking about the Op," he said. "Then it occurred to me, this morning, just how much I love it when other people's children turn out to be even worse than mine."

Ruth choked on her own laughter and had to use the time Harry spent making the tea composing herself.

"I mean it," Harry continued. "At least my Graham's only ever endangered himself. He's never seen fit to drag anyone down with him. And Catherine? At least she has the brains to give the fraudulent fanatics a wide berth."

With no children of her own, Ruth could only look on from the side lines as the inter-parental face-off slowly took shape.

"Seriously, though, what will happen with Leon once this is over?" she asked. "His father seems determined to have him whipped through the streets and boiled in oil."

"That depends on him," replied Harry. "Let's see how today goes and we can deal with it later."

* * *

Emma looked round the front room of the squat with a look of ill-concealed distaste on her face. A cup of lukewarm tea grew cold in front of her, while Leon sat at the opposite end of the dining room table and watched in contemplative silence. They had opened the back windows, kicking in the boardings to do so, bringing in some much needed natural light to the house. But it didn't do much to hide the damp and decay. Emma took it all in silently, nose wrinkled.

For the moment, it was just the two of them. Lucas had left the building on the premise of checking up on some contacts, when in actual fact he was checking the surveillance team and Emma's partners in crime had thus far proved a no-show. However, they were still expected and periodically, Emma checked her phone and fired off messages requesting progress reports. Leon watched her closely, trying to gage how she had warmed to Lucas. So far, he assumed she viewed him as nothing more than a means to an end.

Emma locked the screen on her phone and set it on the table beside her cup. "You can't live here, Leon."

He responded with a shrug. "I've got no choice until I get sorted with a place-"

"Then come with me!" she insisted, once more. "I don't know why you're even thinking twice about it. This place is a health hazard."

Leon sighed, slumping back in his seat. "I can go it alone in a few weeks," he said. "Anyway come and meet the rabbit."

Emma raised a reluctant smile as she rounded the table towards the place where the hutch had been positioned and looked through the bars. "Oh, he's adorable!" she sighed. "Is this the one Liam and his friends rescued from the lab?"

"Uh-huh," Leon nodded, opening the hutch. "Hold him if you want. We keep his house up here so he can see out and not get lonely." He paused there, glancing towards the toy mirror with the camera concealed inside. "He's got that little mirror to make him think there's another rabbit in with him. But he needs human contact, too."

"That's really thoughtful of Liam, actually," Emma agreed, taking a long look inside. She lifted the rabbit out, careful to support him and she brought him up to face level. She grinned as they bumped noses. "Such a darling thing."

Careful not to attract too much attention to the place where the cameras were hidden, Leon breathed a silent sigh of relief when Lucas returned and Emma handed the rabbit back. Once he was secure again, all three sat around the table, ready to begin negotiations. However, they were interrupted by Emma's phone and she ended up excusing herself. While she was absent, Lucas and Leon had the opportunity to talk.

"She's gone to get Maitland, I know it," Leon said.

"Are there any more coming?" he asked. "We need as many as possible."

Lucas brought out a box and positioned it in the middle of the table. It was plain cardboard, taped closed but had recently had a Stanley knife taken to it so it fell open in neat slits. Leon gazed at it, venturing a guess as to what was in there.

"Stay calm," said Lucas, just as Emma returned.

She was not alone. With her came a large man in an Army Surplus jacket. Leon recognised him, but had never met him. Emma made the introductions while Lucas seated them facing the hutch, but both were now regarding the box, its contents still hidden.

"Is it just the two of you?" asked Lucas, looking from one to the other.

Emma responded as though she were pitching a new business. "As you can imagine, at this early stage in the group's development, we're small in number. But, Leon tells us you can help us there?"

Leon had said a lot of things.

* * *

Ros drew level with the flat, parking opposite and shutting off the engine. It was broad daylight in a residential street, but most of the occupants would be out at work. Or so she hoped. Opening the glove compartment, she withdrew a lock-pick and her mobile phone. A false pest control company ID card was also inside, and she inspected it closely before sliding it into her breast pocket. It was something to show any nosey neighbours who came calling, at the least. Once done, she glanced in the review mirror and pretended to fix her earrings in place as she nudged the listening device deeper inside.

"Lima team," she said, to no one in particular.

"We hear you, Alpha One," replied Malcolm, still in the observation van outside the squat. "They're all in there now. So off you go."

"Get them to find out where she keeps the gun if you can," she instructed them, before leaving the car.

Working information like that into a normal conversation took time. So instead of waiting around on the off chance that Emma let it slip, Ros let herself into the flat and began a search of her own. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Coats and jackets slung lazily over wall pegs in the hall; that morning's coffee cup left upturned on the draining board in the kitchen and a cat sleeping deeply beside the still warm stove. Her gloved hand nudged open the living room door, to find the television switched off and a fine selection of newspaper cuttings spread out on the dining table.

Ros didn't move any of the cuttings, but she took the time to glance over them. There were several articles from several different papers – from the Sun to the Guardian and all in between. Each article relating to the assassination of the Government Minister, Sinead Kelly. She let one leather tipped finger touch an article bearing a photograph of Sinead and David Shelley together and shivered involuntarily. Trophies, just like any other killer.

* * *

Lucas pulled back the flaps on the cardboard box and lifted out the cellophane wrapped semtex. Although peculiarly warm to the touch, he knew it was utterly harmless without the detonators connected and the worried looks on the faces of the others made him grin.

"It's okay," he assured them, before explaining the detonator situation.

Emma let out a nervous laugh. "I'm sure we'll get the hang of it, Liam."

"You already have guns, don't you?" Lucas asked. "Because I have contacts inside the military who can always get more."

Theo Maitland looked interested. So far, he had said nothing besides confirming it was he who shot the Minister. Lucas had let them brag for a few minutes before moving on to the business end of the meeting, it all stacked against them.

"If you can get more, we'll find a use for them," replied Emma. "I have a small handgun myself. It's nothing special but it suits my needs well enough for the time being."

"But we need to arm people properly," said Leon. "You're not going to incite a coup with a handgun."

Lucas glanced sharply across the table, towards Leon who then fell silent as though he'd been smacked down in class.

"He has a point," Lucas ceded. "You'll need more, eventually. But for now, this will do."

He drew their attention back to the explosives. Emma gazed at it almost wistfully.

"How many bombs would that make?"

"There's 100 lbs in total, and the Omagh bomb a few years ago was half the size," Lucas explained. "For your purposes, you don't want anything like as big-"

"Hell no!" Emma retorted. "I don't want a blood bath, Mr Nicholls. All I want is to hit strategic targets and make people sit up and take notice."

"Do you have anywhere safe to store it?" asked Lucas, fixing her with a look of curiosity.

Emma thought about it for a moment. "For now, it go the same place as the guns."

"Which is?"

"Under the floorboards of cupboard under my stairs. You did say it would be safe anywhere without the detonators, didn't you?"

Lucas smiled. "Oh yes, it'll be fine."

* * *

"Cupboard under the stairs."

Malcolm's voice echoed in Ros' ear, and she wasted no time in making for the hallway again. It was cold and draughty out there, her footsteps loud against the lino. Although the place was empty and the soul inhabitant under close observation at the other end of town, it was still enough to make her uncomfortable.

"Look for loose floorboards," Malcolm added.

Ros made no reply. She wouldn't speak unless she had to, despite the mic being carefully concealed in the collar of her blouse. Using a penknife brought with her from the Grid, she found the floorboards in question easily. Emma hadn't bothered to replace them properly the last time she used them. Putting them to one side, Ros used the light of her mobile as a makeshift torch. But it was deeper than she thought, and ended up groping around up to her elbow. The murder weapon was wrapped in an old dishcloth, a small package of ammunition in newspaper beside it. There was cash bundled up beside it, as well as other plans.

She turned the plans over in her hand, narrowing her eyes as she read over them. "Lima Team, she's been making plans to abduct the boy for a ransom."

* * *

Leon got up and closed the back windows again. CO19 were closing in silently on the building, creeping around the back via the alley that led round the rear of the building. The last thing he wanted was the Op being blown now. They had damaged the council's boards when opening the damn things, so Leon had to make do with making sure the heavy, mildewed curtains were closed properly. Mercifully, they were black outs.

"Emma," he said, taking his seat again. "Do it. It could really help us."

She smiled at him, revealing a row of neat white teeth. "I have more than one way of raising awareness," she said, but then hesitated as she looked to Lucas. "But he's right. I'll take it."

"How much do you want as a down payment?" the man, Theo Maitland, asked.

Lucas sat back in his seat and pretended to consider it. He couldn't close the deal until CO19 were in place. "How much do you have with you?"

"One K," Emma replied, reaching for her handbag.

"I can skim my Dad's cards and easily get another couple of thousand," Leon suggested.

Lucas noticed the teen flush slightly at his own lies, but no one else did. Finally, after what seemed an age, Malcolm's voice sounded in his ear, signalling the go ahead. "Ros has the murder weapon, bring them in now."

"Done!" Lucas replied, happily.

Money and explosives changed hands, the deal was done. Starsky the rabbit nibbled on as his secret cameras filmed and recorded everything. They got to their feet and Leon and Lucas escorted them to the door. In the hallway, they paused and chatted happily about the weather and the state of the bloody roads.

Before they left, Leon drew Emma aside and smiled as he stretched upwards and kissed her on both cheeks. She looked at him, the smile on her own face freezing, her eyes narrowing.

"That was very formal," she said, forcing an air of lightness into her tone.

Leon didn't reply, but he still smiled. He no longer flinched back, but stood his ground. Still beaten, still bruised, but supreme in his own confidence now. She knew, and he knew that she now also knew.

"Lee?"

Neither of the other two were looking at them. It had been an impromptu act on Leon's behalf. The last act of intimacy; the last betrayal. He had no regrets anymore.

"Goodbye, Emma," he said, swinging open the door.

She was still looking at him as she stepped outside, and into the arms of waiting undercover police officers and CO19 men. The look on her face hardened into something beyond words, beyond contempt, her silent mouth formed the word 'Judas'. Maybe she remembered the story, and fit the pieces together. But what lay at the front of that squat was hardly the Garden of Gethsemane and she was certainly no Jesus.

Lucas stepped around Leon and closed the door firmly. It was done.

* * *

**Thank you again to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. I really am going to try and get the Epilogue up by tomorrow. But early on Monday I'm flying out to India for three weeks. If the epilogue doesn't happen, I really am sorry. But it'll be uploaded the same day I return from holiday.**


	15. Wintering

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it's been a pleasure to write. As ever, the epilogue is just the tying of loose ends and a taster of what's coming in the next story (due around about October time).**

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**Chapter Fifteen: Wintering  
**

"I tried to kill you once."

David Shelley looked down at the steaming tea he had cradled in his hands. Leon couldn't read his expression, but he liked to think that maybe, just maybe, there was a trace of regret in there somewhere. But he didn't ask; he processed what he'd just heard instead. The café they were in was open late, catering to no one but them at that particular time. A pink neon sign flashed in the window, red Formica topped tables clashed painfully with bright yellow walls and the cracked, marble effect lino was showing its age. There was no better place for a grim discussion of their past mistakes.

"Er, thanks … you know, for not killing me," Leon replied. He was genuinely grateful.

His father shrugged. "Possibly, I am exaggerating. But it was very tempting."

"Maybe you should tell me the full story?"

His meal of egg and chips had arrived; thrust in front of him by a graceless and disinterested sixteen year old waitress who didn't catch his words of gratitude because her MP3 player was cranked to full volume. Leon watched her march off down between the tables without as much as a backwards glance. "Charming," he murmured. Crap taste in music, too.

"You eat; I'll talk," Shelley Senior suggested, helping himself to one of his son's chips. It sounded like a fair deal to Leon and picked up his knife and fork, while his father continued. "Your mother went away when you were a baby. You would have been, what, four or five months old. Her sister was sick. Chicken Pox, I think, so you had to be left with me."

They never talked about his mother. She walked into the kitchen one day, when Leon was seven or eight, and came out in a big wooden box several days later; never to be seen again. In Leon's child's mind, the kitchen was nothing more than the place where the biscuit barrel lived, and he simply assumed his mother preferred to be with the biscuit barrel than with him and his father. All these years later, Leon's understanding of brain aneurisms had improved considerably.

When Leon paused between bolting mouthfuls of food, he glanced up at his troubled looking father and frowned. "Was it an accident then?" he asked, gulping down his food.

"Oh, no," his father replied, gently. "You bawled your tiny lungs out from the moment your mother walked out that door. I mean, you screamed and screamed." David paused, a rueful down turning of his mouth betrayed his distress at the memory. "I used to play The Jam to you. Town Called Malice. That's Entertainment. I used to dance you round the room and I'd sing the words."

Leon grinned cheekily. "No wonder I was screaming."

"Fair point," David replied, laughing mirthlessly. "But anyway, it must have been three days of constant crying. Your face was all red and puffy, you looked like Winston Churchill after a week on the razz. The doctor said you were fine; the health visitor woman said you were just tired and I should put you down for a nap. Because, obviously, I hadn't already fucking tried that."

They both sniggered at the sarcasm.

"Anyway, day four and you stopped. Completely out of the blue, you went totally silent and just looked up at me in your cot through those big brown, Bambi eyes. I tucked you in, switched your little lullaby music box on and activated the night light. I must have gotten as far as the door before you started again. The screams, really piercing screams that sounded a hundred times louder after a minute of silence. And I snapped. I pulled the pillow out from under your head and for a second, just one second, I was going to press it over your face and smother you."

Alive and well, but still hungry, Leon used the last few chips to wipe up the residue of the egg yolk, listening to the story. It felt surreal to be in some tacky café, speaking with his own father about their murderous impulses. He set down his knife and fork and looked up at his father. "So, what stopped you?"

"Love," his father answered, without hesitation. He looked as though he was going to add to that, but evidently changed his mind. "Just love."

Leon raised a pained smile. "You've never told me that before."

"I'm not proud of it; you were a baby-"

"I don't mean that," Leon cut over him. "I mean, you've never mentioned my name and love in the same conversation before."

"Christ, Lee, you're my son!" David retorted. "Anyway, your colic is a lot better these days. Although judging by the way you bolted that food down, I could be speaking too soon."

Leon blushed. "Sorry," he said, sheepishly. "But I was hungry and my money won't come through from the benefits place for another week."

MI5 tried to pay him. Lucas was practically forcing the money into his hand. But he wanted none of it. It was blood money. If he was to make amends for what he had done, the process didn't end with the arrest of Emma Richards and all her partners in crime. Slowly, he was learning how to have principles, how to take a stand on his own two feet; without anyone else getting hurt.

"You mean you haven't been fed today?" his father asked, horror struck. "Where are you staying?"

"In a bedsit," replied Leon. "I'm okay. I have some cornflakes left." His new found principles didn't extend to tapping his Dad for cash through subtle means of guilt-tripping.

David Shelley fell silent and averted his gaze as he toyed with salt shaker. After what felt like an age of stilted silence, he finally spoke again. "Forgiveness is a very big word for what I'm feeling right now," he said, truthfully. "But I'm not prepared to lose my only child because of one stupid, catastrophic mistake."

Hope flickered in Leon, a bright ray of hope. "You want to see me again?"

"What I want, is for you to return to education and take your A-levels," replied David. "If you agree to finish your education and make a real effort to get into university, then you can move back home and we can stop trying to kill one another."

Leon smiled. "Thank you," he said, keeping himself in check. But his eyes were welling with tears. "Thank you. I agree. I'll do my best, I promise. But there's just one thing…"

His father's expression darkened, eyes narrowing. "What?"

"Well, it's not just me anymore," Leon confessed. "Starsky the rabbit, Dad. He lives with me back at the bedsit."

The suspicion in David Shelley's eyes melted away to slowly growing laughter. "A rabbit?"

"Yes," Leon answered. "Please let me keep him, Dad. Starsky will be in the garden and you won't even notice him and his old owner didn't have time to care for him properly; I can."

His father was still laughing. "I don't see why not. But really, Leon. Starsky, as in Starsky and hutch? That is painfully bad!"

Leon shrugged and grinned. "I love it," he replied, stubbornly. "I love him ... and you, for what it's worth."

"It's got to be worth something," replied his father. "Come on; let's go home."

* * *

The funeral procession wound through the streets of Lucile's home town. Past her childhood home; through the places she played as a child, where she had her first kiss and all the other small events that made a lifetime. Past her old school, towards the church she never went to in life. Harry and Ruth, along with the rest of Section D followed, keeping a discrete distance as they attended the small, secular service. The casket was bore by Lucile's father, husband and brothers amidst a silence that was still more stunned than grief stricken. Sudden death was just that: sudden and unexpected. The healing process had barely begun for the family.

Afterwards, they all convened in a small pub outside town, just Section D alone. None of them wished to impinge further upon the grief of the family. There they talked among themselves, sat huddled together in the fierce summer sun like a flock of black clad carrion crows. They spoke a little more softly to one another; the couples held each other a little more tenderly and the friends, colleagues and comrades were that little more affectionate. Death affected them the same way it did everyone.

But that night, Harry and Ruth stayed together. A clammy, humid night spent in somnambulant tossing and turning until the temperature dropped. Harry didn't question it. Snow was falling from the pitch dark skies and he was standing outside the pub. He felt like he'd run a marathon; lungs burning and a soft sheen of sweat freezing on his skin in the cold, biting air. An Irish tricolour hung limp from a nearby telegraph pole; 'Brits Out' was spray painted on the lower wall of the pub, alongside 'Victory to the IRA'. He viewed the scene through a screen of squalling, silent snowfall. Even the solid edifice of the pub was half-obscured from view, like the world's lighting system had suddenly gone on the blink. The walls reclining into the night, mostly out of view and bringing with it the threat of something happening just out of his line of vision.

But the lights shone golden yellow from the windows. External spotlights shining on the path, now carpeted in thick snow, quickly obscuring the trail of blood. But he could still see it; twinkling and frozen, like rubies scattered in the pure white snow. Harry knows who he is looking for, and he knows he's too late. "Céad míle fáilte" it says above the door. Welcome.

Inside, the pub was still warm but utterly devoid of life, like a new made corpse. Barstools over turned, broken glass crunching under foot, dirty glasses stacked on the bar and ashtrays still emitting thin wisps of smoke from cigarettes that hadn't been properly docked. Five minutes, just five minutes earlier, and he could have been here in time. Above the bar, an old fashioned analogue television retunes itself, giving him a fright. He hadn't noticed it before. But while the screen clears of the static snow and that old familiar buzz faded to reveal an RTE news broadcast.

"Garda Síochána and the PSNI are once more working together to locate the bodies of the Disappeared," the newsreader announced. "All of the victims, including a mother of ten from the Falls Road, were abducted, tortured and murdered by IRA in the Seventies and Eighties…"

The Eighties hadn't happened yet, Harry knew that. He looked sharply up at the screen, where the newsreader continued the broadcast. He knew that man. He knew him well. Harry moved round the empty bar, where a large pool of blood came into view. It spread across the lino like a blossoming flower, with empty shell cases scattered around the edge. It was smeared where someone had slipped in it and livid red footprints led to a side door. Then he looked back at the screen, at the man he knew well. Fearful and with adrenaline coursing through him, he vaulted the bar and pulled the television clean from its sockets, sending up a shower of sparks as the wires snapped. To stop the dead man talking about the other dead men, Harry finished the job by throwing the telly to the ground with a crash of splintering glass.

"Harry! Harry!"

He was shaken roughly back into the real world, coming to with a jolt and a gasp of panic. But Ruth was behind now, wrapping her arms around him, pressed close. He could feel her soft breaths against the bare skin of his shoulder. All the while, he peered vacantly in the darkness as the residue of the dream fading from his eyes.

"You just elbowed me in the face," she murmured softly.

"What?" he asked, turning his head. "Shit, Ruth, I am so sorry."

"You were having nightmares. Flailing about everywhere," she added, giving him a squeeze for reassurance. "What was it about?"

But Harry didn't want to talk about it. Ruth was not there; she was not part of that bitter past and only someone who was could possibly understand. "It was nothing," he whispered. "Let's just go back to sleep."

* * *

Lucas knew Ros couldn't sleep either. But he didn't move, or say anything. He lay with his back to her, gripping the pillow under his head with a clenched fist. Even with the room in near total darkness, sleep eluded him. The clock on his bedside table informed him of the anti-social hour, so he reached out and jabbed the off button, now making the darkness absolute. Moments later, her hand touched his hip under the covers, sliding slowly up his body and coming rest over his ribs. It made him smile. Someone else's hands in the darkness; someone else's hair on his pillow. Another body, soft and warm, beside his own. Then the shifting of the covers, the crackling fabric as she moved and kissed him, lips pressing gently between his shoulder blades. When she spoke, her voice was husky and low.

"That boy unsettled you," she stated. Not what he was expecting. "Why?"

The sheets rustled again, mattress springs snapping, as he rolled over onto his back, face to the ceiling. "Nothing," he replied, his voice barely more than a whisper. "It was nothing."

After all these years, he would make it nothing. He was expecting her to protest, but instead she let her fingers trail down his bicep, tracing the outline of an old prison tattoo. They turned to each other, before slipping away under cover of darkness.

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**The End.**

**Thank you, once more, to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. It really means a lot, so thank you. See you all again in a month. **


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